


Living Legacy - A Sue-Pernatural Ficisode

by SuePokorny



Series: Sue-Pernatural Season 8 Ficasodes [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:09:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuePokorny/pseuds/SuePokorny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Third in a four-part series designed to replace season 8 and bring us to the launch of season 9. With half the ingredients for the spell secured, Dean and Sam attempt to collect another element, but find themselves faced with a surprise neither of them know how to handle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I

Welcome back! This is the third installment in my Sue-Pernatural season 8 Ficisode series. If you haven’t read the first two, Still They Ride and Kevin Isn’t Too Far Away, I would suggest you do so this one makes sense. ☺ The Winchesters are on a quest to find 6 ingredients to fulfill a spell to expel all demons from earth, they’re halfway there, but their quest is complicated by unexpected circumstances. As always, my wonderful beta Sharlot gets credit for making this a better story, you’d be drowning in adverbs without her. I would love to hear what you think of my ‘re-imagining’ of Season 8 so far! Without further ado…

Living Legacy

Act I

“Does it hurt?” Dean thrust his chin toward the bandaged tip of Castiel’s left index finger. The angel had insisted on donating a small portion of his Grace now, arguing he would need time to regain full strength in case they needed him when they cast the spell to expel the demons from the earth. 

Kevin had sat on the floor, watching open mouthed, fascinated as the angel carefully pricked his hand with the tip of the angel sword he carried in the folds of his coat. The Prophet’s eyes had widened in wonder as the bright, pure Grace had surged from the cut. Cas had uttered a few syllables in Enochian that sounded suspiciously to Dean like ‘Don Quixote’, and the wisp of light had flowed into a vial that was capped tightly with a cork. The Grace ebbed and flowed within the confines of the bottle, sparkling and glowing, as if alive.

It was all very impressive.

And unsettling.

Castiel studied the Disney ‘Cars’ band-aid Kevin had placed over the cut, holding the finger up before him as if the answer to the ultimate question of the universe was written on it. 

For all Dean knew, maybe it was. He held back a grin as he felt an irrepressible urge to write ‘42’ on the side of Lightning McQueen.

“No,” the angel intoned in answer to the hunter’s question. He shifted his penetrating blue gaze to Dean. “Does yours?”

Dean self-consciously wrapped an arm across his chest, leaning for the t-shirt he’d discarded earlier across the back of the couch. Sam had insisted on pulling the stitches in his chest, pleased with how the wounds the Hellhound had inflicted the previous week had healed. The cuts had left puckered pink scars running from armpit to navel and Dean had grimaced at the sensation of the dental floss sliding from his skin as Sam removed his handiwork. As painful as stitches were going in, to Dean, the feeling of them slithering out had always been equally disturbing.

He pulled on the t-shirt, ignoring the angel’s stare, feeling exposed even with the shirt on. “No. It’s fine.”

Sam’s impromptu medical session had been interrupted by the angel’s arrival earlier. Cas had appeared without warning – as usual – in close proximity to the brothers, startling them both. Sam’s surgical scissors, already hovering near Dean’s chest, had almost added a new gash, while Dean, shirtless and propped on one of the rickety kitchen chairs, had toppled backwards, saved at the last minute by the angel’s celestial reflexes.

Castiel had been returning to the cabin, the mission they had sent him on only moments before complete, bearing the ‘Myrrh from a Holy tree’, one of the six ingredients needed for the spell. Dean wasn’t sure if Castiel had merely popped over to the Middle East, or transported himself back to the time of Moses to find the myrrh – and he wasn’t inclined to ask. It was hard keeping track of timelines when angels were involved. While the time travel ability Angel Airways offered had come in handy more than once, it was still a bit mind-boggling that it was possible. To be able to jump to an era before he was even born and interact with people – real people – he should only know about from history books, was something he’d tried – and failed – to wrap his head around. Sometimes it was better to just accept things as they came instead of trying to bend them to fit his more limited understanding.

Although, meeting Elliot Ness had been awesome. So, yeah, bewildering, but kind of cool.

Sam placed the vial containing Castiel’s Grace in the warded lock box with the Hellhound blood and Myrrh, closing it and locking it with a key for added security. With the angel’s contributions, they had half the ingredients for the spell, and had formulated a plan for a fourth, wanting to run it by Cas, at Sam’s insistence, before implementing.

“So,” Dean prompted as soon as Sam had pocketed the key and joined them back in the living area. The taller hunter balanced on the arm of the couch, his eyes locked onto Dean until the older man relented with a roll of his eyes and took a seat on the couch cushion. Sam had taken to hovering since they’d been back from Shoshone, making a bigger deal than normal about Dean’s wounds and forcing the older hunter to ‘take it easy’ until the stitches were ready to be removed. Dean wasn’t sure if it was the enforced down time or the fact that his brother kept looking at him like he was going to break any moment that annoyed him the most. Either way, he was eager to get to the next part of the program, and a demon hunt seemed like just the ticket.

“The Knights of Hell,” Sam turned his attention to the angel seated across from them as soon as his brother was situated. “You said they’re all dead?”

Castiel nodded once, patiently repeating what he had told them when they had first mentioned what they had in mind to collect the next component for the spell. “They were eliminated long ago by the Archangels, with one exception.”

“Our intended target,” Dean interjected.

“Abaddon,” Castiel confirmed. “Yes. Abaddon disappeared many of your centuries ago, presumably to avoid the fate that befell the rest of its kind.”

“But you believe Abaddon is still alive?”

“I do not know,” Castiel responded to Sam’s question honestly. “Abaddon was a lower demon, not as powerful as some of the other Knights, therefore not as prominent a target to Michael’s forces. There have been rumors of its continued existence, some as late as the last century. But whether it was able to completely evade the Archangels or not is unclear.”

Dean exchanged a look of consideration with his brother, then shrugged, and dead-panned, “That was helpful.”

Sam smirked in return. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to try to summon it then. If Michael did gank it, nothing will happen.”

“And if not, you will bring one of the most powerful demons you have ever encountered into this world.”

“I thought you said Abaddon wasn’t at the top of the Knights of Hell food chain?”

Castiel tilted his head in confusion at Dean’s question. “If you are referring to the demon’s power in scale with the other Knights, no, it is not at the ‘top of the food chain’ as you put it. But the Knights were formidable, much more powerful than regular demons. They were Lucifer’s chosen army. Even the weakest of them was stronger than any you’ve come across.”

“Awesome.”

Sam ignored his brother’s sarcasm. “But it’s still a demon, right? A Devil’s Trap will hold it?”

Castiel contemplated the inquiry, finally nodding his head affirmatively. “With a few modifications, I believe so, yes.”

Dean leaned back and closed his eyes. “Well that was all sorts of comforting.” A headache was building behind his eyes, one he had become familiar with of late when the angel was around. Sam would probably tell him it was psychosomatic or something Freudian like that, but he knew it was simple frustration and suppressed anger that fueled it. He was still angry with Cas, and he was not having much luck trying to forgive and forget. He wanted to. He wanted things to go back to the way they were – one big, happy, dysfunctional family – but there was too much water under the bridge for that to happen. The water was a torrent, and the bridge was in danger of being swept away.

He’d heard all the excuses, all the apologies, and he believed Cas was sorry for everything he’d done over the last few years. But the actions – the betrayals – were adding up and Dean was having a hard time getting past it all. If he could believe the angel had learned from his mistakes it would be easier, but something told Dean that Castiel, while remorseful for hurting the people who had accepted him as family, didn’t truly understand the depth of his errors.

And that was the crux of it.

They had become so familiar with the angel, letting him into their little circle, allowing him behind their walls, they had somehow forgotten that he wasn’t really one of them… that he wasn’t human at all. They expected – or more precisely, Dean expected – Cas to understand how friends behaved, how people interacted in good times and bad, but the truth of the matter was, Castiel was not a person.

He was an angel.

A supernatural being who had watched humanity evolve but had not interfered or interacted for millennia. It was unfair to expect Cas to react as a human, simply because he was not. And that was what Dean had been trying to come to terms with.

He was angry at Castiel for what would be considered betrayals of trust for normal people, but Castiel had been following a path that Dean could never even hope to understand. The fact Cas turned out to be wrong and Dean right was beside the point. Cas had eons of training and observations of the way the angels, demons, and the world itself worked, that guided him in his decisions… and Dean had expected him to stand down because of the opinion of one man. Of course, the fact that he hadn’t stood down – hadn’t listened -- still pissed Dean off.

But Dean had been right and Cas had been wrong. And the world had ended up circling the drain again. The fact that an angel, a being that was supposed to be superior, supposed to be doing God’s work, had failed to see what a lowly human had easily understood was difficult to come to terms with. That fact, coupled with what he had done to Sam in the name of that work, was why he couldn’t see the angel in the same light as before.

But maybe that was the point. Maybe the fault didn’t lie with Castiel at all, but with them. Maybe it was time to stop trying to expect Cas to understand how to be human, and simply accept that he wasn’t. 

His mind registered the silence in the room and he opened his eyes to find Castiel watching him, blue eyes unwavering. Sam had disappeared, low murmuring from the back room indicating the younger hunter had excused himself and joined Kevin, leaving Dean and Cas alone.

The traitor.

Castiel noticed Dean’s eyes dart around the vacant room. “Your brother and the prophet are giving us ‘space’.” He used the word tentatively, his unrelenting stare making Dean uncomfortable.

Sam had been trying, none to subtly, to get Dean to talk about his problems with Cas for the last few weeks. Dean had been able to deflect the conversation, reminding Sam he had only agreed to the angel’s involvement on the condition that Cas was Sam’s responsibility. He told his brother he’d work through things at his own pace and Sam had seemed to accept that.

But it wasn’t a surprise that Sam had seized a golden opportunity.

“Dean,” Cas began, but the hunter held up a hand, not needing – or wanting -- to hear another apology.

“No, Cas, you don’t owe me an apology. You don’t owe me anything. Hell, I probably owe you.” He pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the couch and leaned forward, forearms resting across his thighs, hands clasped tightly. 

“I’ve done things I am ashamed of,” Cas admitted.

Dean snorted a soft laugh. “We’ve all done things we regret. Trust me. All we can do is move on and not make the same mistakes again.” He sighed, shrugging a shoulder wearily. “Can’t change the past, man. You told me that.”

“I am still sorry.”

Dean nodded, letting his head hang, his eyes focused on the floor. “I know. Me, too.”

“You have done nothing to be sorry for, Dean.” Cas tilted his head in a familiar sign of confusion.

“Actually, I have.” Dean took a breath, trying to put his thoughts into words. “I’ve expected you to be something you’re not. Human. I’ve held you to standards like any other friend, like family, and it wasn’t fair. I’m sorry.”

“But I am your friend.”

“I know you are, Cas. But you’re an angel, too. I guess…” He raised a hand, kneading the spot between his brows that throbbed in time with his heartbeat. “I guess I’ve just expected you to get it, you know? To be something you’re not simply because I wanted you to be. It… it wasn’t your fault. I mean you were working without a playbook, right? You did what you believed you had to do – big picture stuff. “ He shrugged again, not knowing how else to explain what he was feeling. “You see too much, a hell of a lot more than we do. It’s not fair for me to expect you to see – to understand – what’s going on closer to the ground.” He finally looked up, catching the angel’s eyes. “Does that make sense?”

Castiel dropped his gaze as he thought about what Dean had said. The expression on his face didn’t change, but Dean thought he could detect a touch of something… regret? in his eyes. “I think I understand.”

Dean pursed his lips, letting his gaze fall once again to the floor. “Good.”

The awkward silence returned, and Dean fervently wished he’d had the forethought to bring the unopened bottle of Jack over with him. Before he could voice the sentiment out loud, simply to bridge the silence, the flutter of wings told Dean the angel had gone, and he sank back into the cushion, rubbing his hands over his face. After a moment to compose himself, he dropped his hands to his lap and laid his head back, once more closing his eyes.

“You can come out now, Dr. Phil. He’s gone.”

The soft sounds of footsteps relayed Sam’s return to the room, but the younger man didn’t speak.

Dean rolled his head on the back of the couch and opened his eyes, easily finding Sam’s towering form in the small room, hovering behind the chair, looking guilty for his ploy.

“You get all that?” Dean asked, an edge to his voice letting his brother know he didn’t appreciate the younger man’s attempt at intervention.

Sam had the decency to blush, uncomfortable at being found out. “Most of it.”

“Happy now?” Dean rolled his head back and let his lids drop, not needing to see his brother to know he was, at the least, satisfied Dean had aired some of his feelings.

“For now,” Sam admitted. “Did you really mean that? What you said about not holding Cas to the same expectations?”

Dean sighed and rubbed an eye with the heel of his hand, suddenly very tired. Apparently baring your soul like a girl was exhausting. “Yeah. We’ve tried to make him one of us, Sam. He’s just not. Maybe it’s time to accept it.”

“So now what?”

Dean wasn’t sure. He just knew that things couldn’t go back to the way they were even though that was exactly what he had hoped for. He could easily forgive Sam for all the things he’d done over the years, but, if he was being honest with himself, he would never forget. Cas was different. And he knew he couldn’t trust the angel the way he did before. It just wasn’t possible. Castiel’s priorities were different – maybe more enlightened, maybe not – but he had to accept Cas for who and what he was. An Angel of the Lord. Not the brother he’d expected him to be.

“Now we move on.”

……………………………….

Lebanon, Kansas – 1972

The demon struggled, its foul curses ignored by the robed man standing before it. He thrust his arm out repeatedly, sprinkling holy water from an aspergillum as he recited a Latin ritual in a calm voice. The demon screamed obscenities as the water met its borrowed flesh, burning rivets into the soft tissue. Smoke rose as more blessed water fell upon the demon’s meat-suit, its pain fueling its anger, its captivity fueling its frustration.

The demon was a Knight of Hell, one of the most powerful forces of evil imaginable. It couldn’t believe it had been captured by these inconsequential humans, trapped in this place, subjected to their paltry rituals after evading Michael and the forces of Heaven for millennia. It had finally come to conclude that these were not normal humans. They had known exactly how to subdue a Knight, nullify his powers. He was chained inside a devil’s trap – one with added sigils to contain his extraordinary powers. The manacles around the wrists of the human he was possessing were pure iron, inscribed with powerful symbols he had thought lost through time. 

But these humans knew them. Knew their power. The fact that these contemptible bags of flesh and bone had the intelligence – let alone the audacity – to confront a Knight of Hell, told him he had grievously underestimated them. A mistake he would not make again. Because when he escaped their bonds, he would wipe them from the face of the earth.

The followers of the Order bowed their heads, knees to the ground, as their leader continued to recite the chant. This was their shining moment, decades of research and knowledge, culminating in this one glorious act. 

The last Knight of Hell.

Driven from this world forever.

The ritual had been tried before, with varying degrees of success, but never on one so powerful, so evil. The Knights of Hell were known to be Lucifer’s handpicked army. The most vile, malevolent creatures known to man. The Order had recovered the ritual, lost long ago, by the lifetime perseverance and dedication of its brothers. They had built a vast library of knowledge, weapons, rituals – everything man would find necessary to win this battle against the evil forces that had invaded this world. It had all been painstakingly catalogued, housed in the most protected place they could build.

Man had learned the hard way he could not rely on the forces of Heaven to protect him. It was humanity’s duty to protect itself.

It was their duty to give them the means.

The demon continued to scream, the blackness in its eyes flickering like shadows over a frozen landscape. They had never succeeded on so large a scale, but their leader had assured them it was possible.

So long as they believed. 

The chant rose in volume, the acrid smoke of burned flash mixing with the sulfurous stench of the demon’s essence as it filtered through its skin. The small room was stifling, closed off from the rest of the bunker, the air still and thick. The room was heavily warded, as was the rest of the bunker, safely containing the demon from the world outside. 

The ritual, in its 16th hour, was difficult. Some had succumbed to the heat and intense exhaustion born of constant vigilance in the oppressive atmosphere of the room, but they persevered, knowing they must succeed for the sake those who had preceded them, who had sacrificed to make this day possible. 

For the sake of those yet to come.

………………………………………

Dean sprayed the last sigil on the floor of the abandoned church and stepped back to admire his handiwork. At Castiel’s suggestion, they had added several sigils to the standard devil’s trap as precaution against the expectedly augmented powers of a Knight of Hell. Abaddon may be just a demon, but if the angel was expecting it to be something out of the ordinary, there was no harm in taking a few extra steps to increase their chances of success.

They had set up shop in an abandoned country church about a half hour drive from the cabin. The church was isolated, run over by roots and grass, it’s foundation crumbling on one side. But it was sturdy, its angled roof was still intact and, despite having to evict some of the critters that had made the dilapidated building their home, they’d decided the church would suit their needs nicely. Even in its present state, it was still considered Holy ground -- another plus when it came to dealing with the forces of evil.

Sam had procured one of those wand things priests use to splash holy water over the congregation from Ebay, believing it would make a more effective weapon against the demon than splashing the liquid from a flask. Dean had caught him dancing around, shaking the thing like a maraca, grunting out a beat that could have been something from a Bob Marley skat song. The older hunter had pulled out his phone, covertly recording his brother slithering across the floor, eyes closed, lower lip sucked in, hips gyrating to the beat in his head. Dean had filmed as long as he could before it became impossible to suppress his laughter, alerting the younger man of his presence. Sam had flushed deep crimson, Threatening bodily harm if the video should ever surface.

Dean would have to get Kevin to upload it to YouTube.

Sam, still embarrassed at being caught in a moment of reckless abandon, finished the sigils he had been painting on the doors and walls, joining his brother in the center of the small room. He let his eyes roam across the elaborate devil’s trap Dean had just completed, nodding his head in critical appreciation.

“Nice job,” he threw his brother a rare verbal compliment. “Think it’s enough?”

Dean smiled at the praise then shrugged in response. “No idea. Cas thinks it’ll work, so I guess we go for it and find out.”

Sam glanced at his brother from the corner of his eye. “So… you and Cas… you okay?”

Dean sighed, not wanting to keep rehashing what was going on between him and the angel. “It is what it is, Sam. Leave it alone, huh?” He doubted it would be that easy. Sam had been paying close attention to him since their return from Purgatory – a little too close. It was starting to get on Dean’s nerves. He couldn’t blame the guy for it – he was sure he’d be hovering if the roles were reversed – but he was still feeling a bit out of sorts and having Sam watching him 24/7 wasn’t helping. He just wanted things to get back to normal… well, their kind of normal anyway. This spell – whether it worked or not, was their kind of normal. It gave him a focus, something to hold on to while he glued the pieces of himself back together. He didn’t want to let Sam know just how much Purgatory had taken from him, but apparently his brother wasn’t as easy to fool anymore.

Or maybe he just wasn’t as good at hiding things.

The younger hunter nodded, knowing from his brother’s tone the subject was closed. “So, we good to go then?” he asked, quickly changing the subject.

“As ready as we’ll ever be.” Dean stepped back and tossed the spray can into the corner of the church. “Let’s get this done.”

…………………………………………

Lebanon, Kansas – 1972

The chanting was reaching its climax. Soon the demon would be gone, the world a safer place. It would be their first true victory. Henry could barely contain himself, allowing his excitement to show in the crescendo of his voice. He tried to keep the timber steady, allowing himself to feel the power of the Order flowing through him. This was the apex of their plans. Everything the Men of Letters had prepared for culminated with this. If they could effectively ‘cure’ a demon, turn the evil back into something resembling humanity, all their sacrificed will have been worth it.

And it would work. He knew it. He could see the demon was succumbing to the spell. It was desperately trying to hold on, fighting against him, but he could not let go. He had shed the heavy cloak, the oppressive heat in the windowless room making him light headed. His throat was raw from the hours of chanting it had taken to get them to this point, but he persevered, buoyed by the changes he could see in the demon. It was still fighting, but the verbal spewing had ceased, saving its strength to combat the effects of the spell.

Henry knew it was working. Some of the other more influential brothers had expressed their doubts that such an undertaking was wise. That the spell would not work on one so powerful, but Henry had been adamant. He believed. And that belief would be rewarded. 

He took a step forward, his eyes locked with the black, swirling orbs of the demon. He could feel the hairs on his arms rise as he began the final chant, a low humming building in his ears as his foot inadvertently made contact with the circle surrounding the trap. His voice faltered as a blinding light appeared in the room, a crash of sound. He swore he heard the demon laugh…

………………………………………….

Sam finished the final words of the summoning spell, taking a step back as the sigils on the floor began to glow. An electric current filled the air and he unconsciously rubbed at his arms as they began to tingle. A quick look at his brother showed the older man’s eyes narrowed, his attention riveted to the devil’s trap on the floor. The room began to shake, a roar of sound filling the small space. Both hunters shielded their eyes as a blinding light filled the room, accompanied by a rush of wind that scattered the leaves and detritus that littered the empty church. 

A loud bang assaulted their ears, then sound and light disappeared. They lowered their arms and watched in surprise as an older man fell at their feet, scuffing the lines of the devil’s trap. A second man, in the center of the trap, stood straight, black eyes flashing at the Winchesters, its face twisting into an insidious grin. 

Dean instinctively pulled his gun, taking two quick shots at the demon, knowing they would be ineffectual but hoping to at least slow it down. Sam made a move toward the circle, stooping toward the downed man, only to be thrown across the room into the wall as the demon held out its hand. Dean was given the same treatment, ending up on the opposite side of the room as his brother. 

Ignoring the dazed man that had come with it through the portal, Abaddon glanced at Dean, still slumped on the floor, reeling from his abrupt meeting with the wall, then turned and moved toward Sam, who was somewhat unsteadily regaining his feet. Watching as the demon forced his brother up against the wall, its arm extended, hand wrapped around the younger hunter’s throat, Dean switched the gun to his left hand and pulled Ruby’s knife from his belt. Pushing off from the floor, he charged, stabbing the blade into the demon’s back, holding it while the familiar light show danced inside the meat-suit. When he pulled the knife back, the demon fell to its knees, the orange sparkle under its skin flashing. After a moment, the light ceased and the demon pushed itself to its feet, nowhere near dead. Sam scrambled off to the side, stumbling in a wide circle to join his brother as they backed up, wide eyes locked onto the demon. 

Abaddon grunted, lifted a hand toward its back, eyeing the knife in Dean’s hand with malevolence. Its black eyes shifted to the hunters, glaring at them as they crouched into guarded positions, ready to defend an attack. It made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl, then, without a word, turned and crashed through the wall, between Sam’s carefully drawn sigils, disappearing from view. 

Breathing hard, Sam moved to the outer wall of the church, his head peering through the large hole left in the demon’s wake.

“What the hell?”

Dean’s question went unanswered as the younger man turned his head in every direction, trying to see through the thick trees to get a bearing on where the demon could’ve gone. It was no use. 

Abaddon had vanished.

Sam turned back to his brother, shaking his head to let him know the demon was gone. Movement behind Dean caught his eye and he redirected his attention to the man on the ground. His focus was enough to remind his brother of the more immediate danger still in the room. Dean swung around, lightning fast, bringing the silver gun up, trained on the man who had appeared with the demon. The man was staring at the gun, shock clearly written across his face. He pushed himself off the floor to his knees, raising his arms, swallowing hard.

He was older, Sam assumed somewhere in his mid to late 50’s, about the age their father had been when he… The hunter shook himself, unsure why thoughts of John Winchester had popped into his head. The man before them had the same dark hair, graying at the temples, but was much thinner, almost wiry, and wore his hair in a slicked back style. His clothing was old fashioned, his white, tailored shirt opened at the neck, the collar a bit too broad for current times. He was clean-shaven—a look his dad hadn’t sported since Sam was a child – but it was something in his eyes. There was something familiar in them that Sam couldn’t put a finger on.

He stepped forward, putting him just behind his brother’s left shoulder.

“Who are you?”

The man’s eyes drifted nervously from the gun to Dean’s face, his eyes finally coming to rest on Sam – his strangely familiar, very human eyes. The newcomer took a deep breath through his nose, cleared his throat, and spoke in a trembling voice.

“I dare say I should be asking you that question.” The man squared his shoulder, which was quite a feat with his arms still raised toward the ceiling, and he spoke with an air of authority that impressed neither hunter.

Dean wiggled the gun. “I’ve got the gun,” he reminded the man.

“Yes, you do. And I’m sure you know how to use it, young man.”

“Then answer my brother’s question.”

Instead, the man huffed and dropped his hands, “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”

Dean’s eyes widened and he lowered the gun a bit. “What we’ve just done? We’re not the ones who beamed in and let a demon loose.”

“That wasn’t just a demon,” he stated, his cheeks turning red with anger. “That was a Knight —“

“A Knight of Hell,” Sam finished for him. “Abaddon. We know.” 

“Then you should know this is not the thing amateurs should be playing around with.”

“Amateurs?” Dean scoffed, not liking the accusation in the man’s voice. “You’re calling us amateurs?”

The man took a deep breath, and rolled his eyes. “Look, my Neanderthal friend, I’m sure you think you know what you’re doing, but I’ve been researching and preparing most of my life…”

Dean took a moment to turn to his brother and mouth the word ‘Neanderthal’ before interrupting the older man’s tirade. “And we’ve been hunting all of ours. Trust me, we know what we’re doing.”

“Hunters?” The contempt was thinly veiled. “I doubt you have the first clue how much danger you’ve just unleashed upon the world.”

“We unleashed?”

“Dean,” Sam laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder, stopping him from advancing on the man, knowing he was one more insult away from wringing the poor guy’s neck.

“Let’s all just take a breath here,” he said in his best voice of reason. Dean reluctantly stood down but kept his gun trained on their guest. Sam turned his attention to the man, squaring his shoulders, letting his height add a layer of intimidation to his brother’s gun and glare. “What were you doing with Abaddon?”

The man focused on Sam, his gaze still drifting intermittently to Dean’s steady gun. 

“I – or rather we, my constituents and I – were attempting a ritual which would cure the demon of its evil nature.”

Dean couldn’t help but scoff. “Cure it? Seriously? Being a demon isn’t some disease you can throw a telethon for. You exorcize it or kill it. Not a lot of options, Professor.”

“And which were you doing?” the man shot back.

Sam sighed, resigning himself to playing the peacemaker. “Neither,” he admitted. “We were going to use it for a spell.”

“A spell?” The man’s interest was piqued. “What kind of spell?”

“A spell that will send all demons back to Hell.”

The man’s brows rose in surprise. He looked dutifully impressed. “Permanently?”

Sam shrugged. “We’re not sure.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dean interrupted. “However long it takes those sons-a-bitches to claw their way topside again, it’s time the world can breathe a little easier.” He tilted his head toward his brother. “And maybe lighten our load a little, too.”

“Well as long as you’re doing it for such altruistic reasons,” the man snapped, his voice laced with condescension. 

“Excuse me?”

“Altruistic. It means –“

“I know what it means!” Dean stepped forward menacingly, causing the thin man to jump back in fear.

“Dean!” Sam reached out and tugged his brother’s sleeve. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold his brother back if the man kept antagonizing him. He held a hand out to calm the man, knowing Dean’s outstretched arm that still held the Desert Eagle garnered much more attention. “Look, my name is Sam, this is my brother Dean. As we’ve already stated, were hunters. You seem to know what that means.”

The man nodded.

“So why don’t we all calm down and talk about this rationally.” Sam squeezed his brother’s arm, sighing in relief when the older hunter slowly lowered the gun. “Why don’t we start with your name?”

The man, relieved at no longer being on the wrong end of the gun, ran a trembling hand down his chest, straightening the wrinkles that had pressed themselves into his starched shirt. He took a deep breath then cautiously offered his hand in greeting.

“You can call me Henry. Henry Winchester.”

TBC…


	2. Act II

Living Legacy  
Act II

“Come again?”

It was times like these Sam was grateful he knew his brother so well. He tightened his grip on Dean’s arm the instant he felt the muscles tighten, effectively halting the older hunter’s attempt to bring his gun to bear. 

Henry looked at Dean as if he were mentally challenged. For a moment he stood there, hand outstretched, brow puckered in confusion, before withdrawing the arm with a huff.

“You should learn some respect for your elders, son.”

This time Sam physically yanked Dean back, stepping in front of his brother in an attempt to curb any unnecessary bloodshed. He gave Henry – if that’s indeed who he was – a reproachful look. God, he wished the man would stop pushing all the wrong buttons.

“Mr. Win –“ Sam shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment, not ready to accept what his mind had already pieced together. “Henry,” he tried again, keeping his voice level, his body between his brother and the older man. “What year is it?”

He held his breath, waiting on the answer, knowing if suspicions were correct, he would need every ounce of composure he had in him to convince his brother. The moment he’d laid eyes on Henry, his father’s face had popped into his head. If what he suspected was true, it made perfect sense. Well… maybe not perfect, but it went a long way in explaining why this man had reminded him of John Winchester. They’d never seen a photo of John’s father – all photos having burned up in the fire in Lawrence – so he couldn’t be sure, but something in the back of his head was telling him that this indeed was the Henry Winchester.

Their grandfather.

The man had died long before they were even born. John had told them how his father, a workaholic, had paid him little mind after his mother had died. How he had left right after high school to join the Marines, and had only made up with his dad for a short while after he’d returned from his second tour before Henry had passed.

But here he was – Sam was sure of it – right in front of them. Considering all they’d experienced, all they had learned over the years, Sam would bet his brother’s car they were currently looking at John’s father. 

“What year” Henry responded, exasperated. “Why it’s 1972, of course. Don’t tell me you’re as daft as your brother.”

Sam frowned at the insinuation.

“!972?” Dean laughed. “Seriously? Dude, do we look like the Partridge Family?”

Henry’s face told them they did not.

Dean snorted derisively. “This dude’s whacked, Sam.” He glared at Henry who had the presence of mind to move back a step. “Or he’s lying. Whichever, I’m not listening to this crap anymore.”

“Dean, I think he could be telling the truth.”

The older brother turned wide eyes to the younger. “Don’t tell me you’re actually buying this crap.”

Sam shrugged. “Why not? It’s not like the first time we’ve dealt with time travel.”

“So now we’re on an episode of the Twilight Zone?”

Both brothers turned to Henry in unison. “Shut up!”

Dean’s mouth turned up into a grin. “Though the Shatner episode was cool.”

Before Henry could answer, Sam grabbed his brother’s sleeve and pulled him a few steps away. “Dean, could we focus here for a minute?”

“Fine,” Dean’s voice lost its humor. “So, what… time travel? How? An angel or god didn’t bring him here. We used a summoning spell, man. How does summoning a demon spell time travel?”

Sam tilted his head in thought. It was a good question. One he didn’t have a good answer for.

“I don’t know. Maybe… maybe the summoning ritual pulled the demon from a different time? Maybe it didn’t exist anymore in this one, so it found a way to bring it here from a time it did exist.”

He was reaching and his brother told him so. “Besides, dude, it’s not like we’ve never summoned a damn demon before. What makes this time different?”

Sam shrugged again. “Maybe because we were summoning a more powerful demon?” He shook his head, his eyes straying to the broken devil’s trap on the floor. “Or maybe it was the extra sigils? Cas said it would make the trap more powerful. What if it made the summoning spell more powerful, too?”

Dean wasn’t convinced, but he couldn’t deny it was at least possible. “Okay. So what now, genius?”

Sam rubbed a hand down his face and thrust his chin toward Henry who had been quietly standing by, watching the two hunters with suspicion. “We take him back to the cabin?”

Dean sighed. “Fine. And we call Cas and ask him what the hell is going on.”

Sam nodded in agreement then turned to Henry, not truly knowing what to say. He knew he was right. He believed this was his grandfather. Of course, a dead grandfather popping up wasn’t a new experience for the Winchesters. After the debacle with Samuel, Sam couldn’t fault his brother for his wariness. Sam’s recollection of his year hunting with Samuel and the other Campbell’s was sketchy at best, his soullessness distorting the memories, making them unreliable at best. What he did remember wasn’t good. While he had been without his soul, his radar had been tragically off kilter. But Dean had been under no delusions. Dean had mistrusted Samuel from the start.

And he’d been right to. 

So even if Henry was who he said he was, Sam was fine with using caution this time. What was the use of everything they’d gone through if they couldn’t learn from the experiences?

“Okay. We head back to the cabin and check in with Cas. Maybe he can get a handle on Abaddon. We still need that demon.”

It was Dean’s turn to nod. He turned his head to look at Henry, snorted in irritation then made a beeline for the door.

Sam gave the older man a wan smile, motioning him toward the doorway, sighing heavily as he followed him out.

This was going to be one long ride.

…………………………….

Abaddon slowed, knowing the humans were not pursuing it. The meat suit it currently possessed was not built for running, especially with a large knife wound in its back. While the demon knew the wound was of little significance and it could continue to use this body, it was more inclined to exchange it for one that would be more… suitable to its needs. 

It walked to the edge of the forest, eyeing the terrain that spread before it. Down a slight incline was a curving highway, with a few of the human transports known as automobiles rolling their way across. Stepping down from the edge of the incline, Abaddon walked onto the blacktopped road, turning and holding a hand toward a small, blue vehicle approaching. The driver, a perfect specimen it was pleased to see, slammed on the brakes, trying to bring the vehicle to a screeching halt. 

The vehicle, going well above the posted speed limit, skidded sideways, smashing into the demon at a speed that would kill an ordinary human. It allowed the current meat suit to fly across the hood of the car, rolling twice before coming to a stop face up, lying across the dotted yellow line of the road.

Keeping its eyes skyward, Abaddon smiled inwardly as it heard the vehicles door open and the subsequent sounds of heels clicking across the pavement.

“Oh my God! Oh my God!” A woman’s high-pitched voice filled the air. “I ‘m so sorry! I didn’t even see you! Mister! Mister? Can you hear me?” 

Abaddon watched the woman through its human peripheral vision, waiting until she was leaning over the body, gazing into the meat suit’s unblinking eyes.

“Oh please don’t be dead!” The woman sounded near hysterical and Abaddon decided to appease her. As the woman reached a hand toward its face, Abaddon lifted its own arm with blinding speed and latched onto the woman’s arm. Lifting its bloody head from the blacktop, the demon allowed the meat suit’s eyes to go black, smiling grotesquely.

When the shocked woman opened her mouth to scream, black smoke rammed itself down her throat.

A few moments later, a pretty, red headed woman climbed down a small incline and climbed into her 2010 Ford Escort. As she drove away, a large crow fluttered onto the road, attracted by the puddle of blood staining the yellow line. 

………………………………..

Sam was right. It was a long drive.

At first Dean just drove, ignoring Henry as he prattled on in the back seat of the Impala. The older man had asked questions, most of which had fallen on Sam to answer. Not that Henry was buying anything Sam was selling. The man was quick to believe they were hunters, and neither Winchester had missed the condescension in his tone when he had admitted it. Apparently, not only did their grandfather know exactly what a hunter was, he made no secret of his low opinion of them. He had used the words uncouth and uncivilized, and Sam had watched his brother’s hands tighten around the steering wheel until they were white.

Dean didn’t utter a word to Sam’s surprise and relief, but he could tell by the ticking of his brother’s jaw that Dean was seething with tightly controlled fury. Grandfather or not, Henry wasn’t making any points with John’s oldest son.

As soon as they’d pulled up to the cabin, Dean had gotten out, slammed the door of the car and stomped into the cabin, leaving Sam and Henry in his wake. Henry had made a remark about the older brother’s vulgar and disrespectful behavior and Sam had clenched his fists, fighting the urge to deck the older man despite his age or potential relationship. While he couldn’t deny Dean’s attitude toward the new arrival was, in most respects, completely rude, he knew it was borne of experience. Grandfather’s dropping in from the blue wasn’t something they’d had much luck with in the past. Most people had enough sense to stay out of Dean’s way when he was like this, though – the older hunter practically oozed menace; eyes hard, teeth clenched, muscles in his jaw twitching -- and Sam believed it was almost impossible to miss the invisible neon sign flashing DANGER! above his head.

Apparently Henry wasn’t one of those people.

After introducing Henry to Kevin and asking the young prophet to help their ‘guest’ set up another cot in the back room, Sam flopped down on the couch, exhausted, yet aware there was still a battle ahead of him.

Dean had bypassed the beer, going straight to the bottle of Jack. Sam watched as the older man slammed back a long pull straight from the bottle. Normally he didn’t condone his brother’s use of alcohol to placate his anger, but under the circumstances, Sam was half inclined to join him.

Apparently, Dean’s ‘Sammy Radar’ was functioning properly. 

“Here.”

Sam accepted the bottle, taking a drink before handing it back. He shuddered as the alcohol burned down his throat, waiting while his brother took another gulp and dropped into the chair across from him.

“Unbelievable.” Dean shook his head, and incredulous expression on his face. “Can you believe the balls on that guy?”

Sam shrugged. “He’s a Winchester.”

Dean glared, pointing a finger at his brother. “That’s still undecided.”

Sam sighed. “Dean, you heard the man. He’s from 1972. He has a grown son? John? Due back from a tour in Viet Nam? Do the math, man.”

“Just proves he’s crazy,” Dean mumbled. “Or messing with us.”

“Why?” Sam argued. He leaned forward, resting his forearms across his thighs. “What could he possibly gain?”

“I don’t know, Sam!” Dean rose and paced across the room, agitated. “Maybe he’s working for Crowley. Maybe that limey bastard caught wind of what we’re trying to do and dusted off the old ‘bring grandpa back from the grave’ plan to screw with us again.”

Sam’s lips thinned, and he nodded, acknowledging the possibility. “Maybe, but I don’t think so, Dean. He just doesn’t seem… evil. I’m not getting any bad vibes from him.”

“You didn’t get any ‘vibes’ from Samuel either.” Dean crooked his fingers in air quotes, quite a feat without dropping the bottle.

Sam’s resentment flared at his brother’s accusation, but held his temper in check, knowing Dean was angry and hadn’t meant to insinuate anything. “I know,” he said between clenched teeth. “But can you honestly tell me that you think Henry is playing us?”

Dean sighed, walked back to the chair and bonelessly slumped into it. “No,” he quietly admitted.

“You’re not getting the same… ‘vibes’ from him that you did from Samuel?” He threw the air quotes back at his brother, letting his irritation sneak through.

“No,” Dean confessed honestly. “But come on, Sam. Even if this guy is who he says he is, you know what happened. Dad told us how he had to practically raise himself after his mom died. How his father buried himself in his work until all hours of the night. Dad never could figure out what was so important. Henry wasn’t there. He practically abandoned Dad. I mean that’s why he left and joined the Marines the second he graduated.”

And just what do you think Dad did to us? he wanted to ask his brother. He’d heard the same stories. John Winchester may not have been father of the year, and he and Sam had had many a fall out over the way they were raised, but Sam had finally accepted one thing: everything John had done was to protect them. The training, the moving from town to town, from job to job, never letting them set down roots, never allowing them to become attached… it had all been to keep them sharp, to make them tough. It had sucked big time, but Sam could understand why his Dad had done it. He was scared. Knowing what was out there had forced him to make them grow up long before their time – especially Dean. It wasn’t much of a childhood, but it had kept them both alive. And for that, Sam was grateful.

“I know, Dean. But he also said that Henry tried to make up for it. Right before he died. That he had even asked him for forgiveness. Maybe… maybe we have a chance to give him that. For Dad.”

“Excuse me.”

Both hunters jumped at the voice. Sam’s head snapped up as Dean pivoted in the chair, careful not to spill the whiskey.

Henry stood in the doorway to the back room, eyes wide, hesitant, an irresolute look on his face. “I’m sorry… I… I didn’t mean to eavesdrop…” He shifted from one foot to the other before taking a step into the larger room. “Did I just hear you correctly? Did you say that John was your… that you are John’s sons?”

Dean deliberately turned back around, his brows raised, his eyes telling his brother this one was all his.

Sam stood, wiping his suddenly moist hands on his jeans. “Um… yeah.” Dean gave him a smirk that said ‘eloquent’. Sam ignored him.

Henry looked from Sam to Dean, haltingly stepping around the chair and into the center of the room. “How is that possible?” He lowered himself onto the other end of the couch, his eyes studying each man’s face in turn. “John’s overseas. He’s not due back for another nine months.”

Sam opened his mouth once then closed it, not sure what to say. He looked to his brother, silently begging him to make the first move. They hadn’t worried about the close quarters within the cabin before. Kevin spent most of his time in the back room, either working on the laptop or staring at the tablet, occasionally scratching comments down in his tattered notebook. They wondered what he did for stress relief back there, but neither brother wanted to broach the subject with the teenager and had mutually decided just to let him be. They had discovered he usually wore the headphones Sam had bought for him, letting music or whatever served as white noise for the young prophet help him shut out the rest of the world. Of course, they knew Kevin wasn’t as oblivious as he appeared, but whatever he overheard he respectfully kept to himself. 

Henry, of course, was a different story.

“It’s not 1972,” Dean said with a sigh. He kept his voice low and even, rubbing a hand across his eyes. Sam was relieved the anger that had previously colored his brother’s voice was gone. “It’s 2013. The war’s over, buddy. Has been for a long time.”

Henry slumped back against the cushion. “You’re not joking.” It was more of a statement than a question.

Dean answered anyway. “Nope. Not even a little.”

“Huh, the Mayans were wrong.” Henry shook his head. “How is this possible?”

Sam returned to his seat, angling on the cushion to face Henry. “We’re still working on that, but, trust me, this is 2013.”

“And you two… you’re my grandsons?”

Dean bobbed his eyebrows once. “Hell of a family reunion, huh?”

“John?”

The brother’s exchanged a look, neither wanting to be the one to tell the man his son was dead. 

“He died a few years ago,” Sam finally responded.

“How?”

“Demon.” Dean saw no reason to lie. Sometimes it hurt less to rip the band-aid right off.

“Demon?” Henry repeated, his voice shaking. He swallowed hard. “Abaddon?”

Sam shook his head. “No. Different one. Azazel.”

Henry nodded thoughtfully. “Did you kill it?”

“Dean did.”

Henry’s eyes locked on to the older hunter’s. “Thank you.”

Dean had no idea how to respond to that. They rarely received gratitude for saving complete strangers, having someone convey heartfelt appreciation for something he did more for Sam and himself was unsettling. He settled for an awkward nod.

The room was quiet for a few moments, then Henry slapped his hands against his knees and rubbed them against his slacks. “So,” he said, his voice a bit too loud and upbeat to be convincing. “I have grandsons.”

……………………………….

2013.

Incredible.

Abaddon folded the newspaper and dropped it onto the top of the plastic basket. It flexed the unfamiliar muscles of the woman’s face into a smile as it approached the clerk at the small gas station it had pulled into for fuel. The teenage boy behind the counter returned the smile, leering at the meat suit’s ample bosom.

“Find everything you needed, ma’am?”

Abaddon tilted its head, watching the boys eyes go from the possessed woman’s eyes to her chest. A grin spread across its new face. “Not yet.” it replied, letting the human’s voice soften. It batted the woman’s eyes. “I’m looking for a couple of guys. I think they may live around here. One is really tall, the other has a James Dean thing going on?”

The clerk was nodding his head. “They drive a cherry 1967 Impala?”

Abaddon recalled the sleek black car that had been sitting outside the church. “Yes, I believe they do.” It leaned over the counter, giving the boy an eyeful of cleavage. Human males were so predictably easy. It was why the demon had always preferred female meat suits for its activities topside. “You wouldn’t know where they’re staying, would you?”

The teenager licked his lips, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head at the view. “Uh… I… no.” he finally managed. “But they’ve been in here off and on for a while now. So it must be close by. Maybe in one of those old cabins back in the woods?”

Abaddon’s hand snaked out, cobra quick. It grabbed the young clerk around his wiry neck, snapping it like kindling, killing the weak human instantly. The boy fell to the ground in a boneless heap. She set the basket down, removing the newspaper and few snack items she had collected. One of the few perks of using these meat suits were the sugary confections they consumed. Without a glance to the dead boy behind the counter, she turned and left the store, intent on finding Henry Winchester and the two hunters who’d summoned her.

This was going to be fun.

………………………………..

As darkness fell over the quiet cabin, the three men sat around the rickety table, the last of the beer supply divided between them. Kevin, sensing the Winchesters needed time alone, had made himself scarce, taking his notebook and headphones into the back room, giving them space to work through their unusual situation.

Henry, after two beers, was leaning heavily on the table, his eyes glassy, staring at the bottle, his hands idly picking at the damp label. Dean watched him, amused, finally understanding where his little brother’s low alcohol tolerance had come from. Their grandfather was definitely a lightweight.

He wasn’t sure when he had started thinking of Henry as their’ grandfather’, but there was no doubt in his mind now that the man in front of him was exactly who he claimed to be. After the initial shock had worn off, Henry had bombarded them with questions about their dad, the familiar feeling of loss sweeping over Dean so completely he had abandoned the beer after one bottle and fortified his defenses with the harder stuff. That left the last two remaining beers for Sam and Henry, which was obviously the elder man’s limit.

Sam, surprisingly, was still sober. The younger man was keeping an eye on him, frowning as he poured another shot from the whiskey, but didn’t verbalize his disapproval. It wasn’t news that Dean could hold his liquor. Not even a stint in Purgatory could put a dent his countenance. While the others may feel the effects after a couple of beers, Dean’s tolerance, after years of practice, was well above average. 

Dean wished like hell it wasn’t.

It wasn’t that Henry made him nervous – quite the contrary. Since Henry had accepted that he’d been pulled into the future and was currently sitting with his previously unknown grandsons, he’d made every effort to quell his abrasive personality and deal with the hunters on a more personal level. Dean had even let his curiosity override his instinctive mistrust for the time being, sitting back and letting his brother feel the older man out without interrupting. Eventually he’d joined the discussion. They told Henry stories about John, bringing back some of the better memories of times when hunting wasn’t everything and they had actually felt like a family. Dean was heartened to hear Sam reel off a few positive recollections, steering clear of the confrontations and downright hostile exchanges that had marked the last few years before Stanford.

Henry listened, his eyes losing focus as his own memories surged. It was obvious the man felt the loss of his only son – even if that loss was something he had never lived to see. A sad smile ghosted on his lips as the boys quieted, each lost in their own thoughts of the man that had been such an integral part of their lives.

“So,” Sam finally broke the silence. He downed the rest of his beer and placed the bottle in the center of the table. “What now?”

Dean tipped his glass, downing the contents in one gulp, ignoring Sam’s glare as he reached for the almost empty bottle and poured another drink. 

“We still have a demon on the loose,” he reminded them. He sat back and twirled the glass in his fingers, waiting for his brother to respond.

“Do we try the summoning spell again?”

“Yeah, because that worked so well the first time,” Dean said dryly.

“True,” Sam shrugged and sat back in his chair, one arm resting on the Formica tabletop. “Maybe it’s time to call Cas?”

Dean took a sip of whiskey, tipping back dangerously in the chair. “Probably.” He looked at his brother expectantly. It was he who had vetoed Cas’ involvement in the actual summoning, arguing they had been at this job for most of their lives without angelic backup, it shouldn’t become a crutch now. He was sure Sam had caught the unspoken ‘considering what’s happened the last few times we have’ and had thankfully just agreed. Maybe, in retrospect, it hadn’t been the right time to assert their independence.

“Me?” Sam’s voice rose in pitch, his surprise evident.

Dean shrugged. “I told you, dude. You’re holding the leash on this one.”

Sam pulled out his phone, then looked hesitantly at Henry who was still lost in thought. He raised a hand, pointing a thumb at the door of the cabin. “Maybe I should… ah… make a beer run.”

“Hunter’s Helper, too.” Dean said, silently agreeing with his brother that they should, for the time being, keep mum about their angelic cohort. “Maybe you could pick up a pizza at that little gas mart down the road,” he suggested. “I’m starving.” Although they had accepted Henry as their grandfather, after everything the man had been forced to absorb these last few hours, adding the fact that angels did exist and they had one looking over their shoulders seemed a bit callous. Until they could find a way to get him back to his own time, his knowledge of Abaddon could be of some use, but Dean felt they should keep the man on a need-to-know basis for the moment, and right now, Cas was something he didn’t need to know.

“Right,” Sam stood and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. He shrugged into it, deftly catching the keys Dean tossed him in one hand. “I’ll be back in a few.” He glanced back at his brother, his brow worried. “You two… play nice?”

Dean waved him off before downing the rest of the amber liquid in the glass.

“Your brother worries too much.” Henry remarked after they’d heard the roar of the Impala’s engine fade.

Dean snorted a laugh. “You think?”

The two men sat in awkward silence for a while, Dean quelling the desire to chase down his brother and offer to go himself.

“So,” Henry said after finishing the dregs of his beer and reaching for the last bottle. “You’re hunters.” He shook his head as if confused, and Dean could sense the underlying derision in his voice.

“You have a problem with hunters?”

Henry glanced at the younger man, the cold challenge on his face unsettling. “No… well, yes… but that’s not my point. I just thought you would be… I mean I expected…”

Dean rolled his eyes, wondering just how blitzed a grown man could get off of two beers. “You expected what?”

Henry took a deep breath and squared his shoulder, raising his head and looking Dean straight in the eyes. “You and your brother should be studying the Letters instead of wasting time with this hunting. It’s beneath you. What level are you and Sam?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Level? Like in Candy Crush?”

“What?”

“Never mind.” The hunter waved a hand, replaying the conversation in his head, trying to make some sense of it. “What are you talking about?”

“I meant what level are you in the Letters?”

Dean shook his head and leaned forward, reaching across, moving the still capped beer bottle out of Henry’s reach “Letters? Man, you’re not making much sense. Maybe you should go a little easy on the brew.”

Henry didn’t appear to notice the loss of his drink. “But you and Sam are Legacies! Your father should’ve trained you to become Men of Letters when you came of age!”

“Dude, we’re hunters,” Dean said carefully. “That’s what our dad trained us to be.”

Henry sat back in the chair, his arms slipping off the table, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

Dean shook his head and leaned back, unconsciously increasing the distance between him and the crazy man he shared the table with. “Do you?”

Henry raked a hand down his face, a gesture that reminded Dean of his father. His breath caught in his throat, his mind flashing to the millions of times he’d seen John Winchester make that exact same move. After a few minutes, the older man reached across for the beer, twisted off the cap and took a long draw. 

“You never mention your mother,” Henry changed subjects abruptly. “John wasn’t seeing anyone before he shipped out as far as I know. Who is she?”

“Mary Campbell.” Dean supplied the name but nothing more. Talking about his dad was hard enough, he didn’t think there was enough alcohol left in the cabin to add his mom to the mix.

Henry thought for a moment before shaking his head. “The name doesn’t ring a bell. Where is she now?”

“Dead.” Dean cringed inwardly at the expression of sympathy that fluttered across the older man’s face. “She died when I was four. Sam was just a baby.”

“I assume it wasn’t a natural death?”

Dean cleared his throat, shifted uneasily in the chair. “Demon,” he finally admitted, his voice catching on the word. “Dad spent the rest of his life hunting the bastard down until…”

“It killed him.”

Dean swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “Yeah.”

“How did it happen?”

The hunter closed his eyes in frustration, wishing the older man would just please give it a rest with the twenty questions. “It was my fault.” The admission surprised him as much as Henry. “I was hurt… dying… and Dad made a deal…” He didn’t like talking about what John had done to save him. Even after all these years, the emotions were too raw, the guilt overwhelming.

“A deal to save you?”

Dean nodded, leaning his elbows on the table and bringing his hands up to cover his face. He did not want to talk about this. “He should’ve let me go.”

Henry leaned forward and placed a hand on Dean’s arm, his voice soft and low. “He couldn’t. He was your father.” His grip tightened for a moment then released, his heart breaking for the young man. “Someday you’ll understand how far a parent will go for their child.”

Or their brother.

Dean quickly squashed that train of thought.

He rubbed his face hard, then sat back, his eyes narrowed as he regarded Henry. “You didn’t,” he accused. “You left your son alone. He was just a kid and you cut him off. You weren’t there for him when he needed you.”

Henry’s eyes dropped, not able to withstand the younger man’s scrutiny. “My work was important.”

It was a feeble excuse and they both knew it. 

“More important than him?”

Henry’s shoulders slumped and he took another sip of his beer. “Perhaps. I’m not proud of it, but my work –“

“Was important,” Dean finished the sentence for him, his voice harsh. “So you said.”

“I don’t expect you to understand…”

“Use small words.”

The older man raised his head, his eyes meeting his grandson’s, swallowing at the accusation he saw in them. “Very well. I am part of an organization – an ancient brotherhood. We are called the Men of Letters.”

“Letters. You mentioned that before.”

Henry nodded, his voice strengthening with his explanation. “We are tasked with collecting and storing all the knowledge of the supernatural that mankind has discovered throughout the ages.”

Dean crossed his arms, leaning against the tabletop, his eyes boring into Henry’s. “Like an archive of the weird and unexplained.”

“Precisely.”

“So if your little cult is so important, why haven’t we heard of it?”

Henry raised his hands, palms up in the universal sign of confusion. “I honestly don’t know. I had planned to bring John into the order when he came of age, but he joined the service and shipped out before I could do so.” Dean thought he detected a note of regret in the man’s eyes. “Since you have never heard of the Letters, and your father raised you as hunters, I can only assume I never got another chance.” His brows raised, his face displaying an expression of hope. “But according to your brother, I was able to repair the rift between us? Ask John for forgiveness?”

“That’s what I always understood.”

“Then I am at a loss.”

Dean snorted a laugh. “Time travel will do that to you.”

Henry smiled, unfazed that his grandson could discuss such a phenomenon as if he was an expert. After a moment, he sobered. “I wish I had the chance to know him as an adult. I would’ve liked to have known what kind of man he became.”

Dean watched the older man for a moment before coming to a decision. He pushed himself from the table and crossed the room to where his duffel lay on the far side of the couch, rummaging through until he pulled his father’s battered journal from its depths. He returned to the table and tossed the journal onto the formica top where it landed with a recognizable thud.

“Maybe you can start with that.”

Henry gazed at the book, his hands ghosting across the worn leather reverently. He gently opened to the first page, his fingers skimming the initials ‘J W’ embossed on the bottom of the inside cover. “I bought him this journal for his high school graduation. It was for his studies of the Letters. He left before I could give it to him.”

Dean swallowed, not expecting to hear the sadness in Henry’s voice.

“Dad carried that journal for as long as I can remember. Everything he ever knew about the evil crap we hunt is in there.”

Henry looked up, his eyes shining, and gave Dean a tremulous smile. “Would you mind?”

The fact that the man was asking his permission to read about his own son took Dean by surprise and he found himself unable to respond. The journal and the Impala were everything he and Sam had left of their father, and he would protect both with his last breath. But Henry had the right to know who John was, and Dean wanted him to understand that despite the fact he hadn’t turned out to be who Henry expected, John Winchester had spent his life saving people, fighting the same fight his own way. The man was a hero. Dean hoped Henry could be satisfied with that.

He nodded his head once, then grabbed the whiskey bottle and headed out the door. He took a deep breath, letting the cool, crisp air clear his head. He was glad to have a reason to be alone. He’d revealed more about himself than he was comfortable with, and he desperately wanted some time – and liquid fortitude – to shore up his defenses before continuing the conversation with his newly found grandfather. Giving Henry some privacy to read through Dad’s journal may give the old man some insight into his son, and negate the need for Dean to voice any more painful family secrets. The temperature had dropped with the sun, early spring in Wyoming still being on the cold side at night. Determined to avoid any more one-on-one discussions with Henry, Dean moved down the cabins rickety front steps, only to be brought up short by the angel who suddenly appeared before him.

“Damnit, Cas.”

Castiel took a large step backward, a move that would have been quite comical if Dean had been in a better frame of mind.

“I’m sorry. I forgot. Personal space.”

Dean sighed wearily. “Right.’ He sat down with a tired sigh on the wooden step, careful to avoid the two large nails that protruded from the rotted end of the boards. He took a drink from the bottle before gesturing with his free hand for the angel to take a seat beside him.

“I wanted to ‘drop by’ for an ‘update.’” The angel stated once he’d perched next to Dean. He sat, stiff, erect, making Dean’s back hurt in sympathy. The hunter leaned forward, arms across his thighs, the whiskey bottle dangling from lax fingers between his legs. He couldn’t suppress a grin. The pride the angel displayed at his attempt at slang was… endearing.

“Just thought you’d pop in, huh?” the hunter responded, laughing as the angel’s expression changed from pleased to confused in a heartbeat. A thought sobered him abruptly. “Update” he repeated, turning his head to stare at the angel. “Didn’t Sam fill you in?”

Castiel shook his head. “I have not spoken to you or your brother since before you attempted to summon Abaddon.” The angel looked around the clearing in front of the isolated cabin. “I was curious as to your success.”

The Angel had offered to accompany them, back-up, if needed in case Abaddon proved to be more formidable than they expected. A quick, non-verbal exchange between the brothers had concluded the angel’s assistance wasn’t necessary and Sam had spit-balled an excuse, claiming Cas’ presence would be more useful at the cabin, helping Kevin decipher the remaining ingredient for the spell. The angel had been reluctant, but agreed to stay behind.

In retrospect, angelic back-up may have been a good idea.

“He was going to call you,” Dean explained. “Fill you in on what happened with Abaddon.” Something in Cas’ expression was making him nervous. “He didn’t call?”

Castiel shook his head. “No.”

“Damnit, Sam,” Dean muttered. He set the whiskey bottle down on the porch and pulled his phone from his pocket, punching the speed dial #2 number for his brother. #1 was still Bobby – both brothers having called the old mechanic more than even each other throughout the years. While Bobby had been gone for more than a year now, Dean still didn’t have the heart to delete his number. It somehow made him feel his surrogate father was still close by.

It didn’t take long for the call to connect.

“Hello, Dean.” A woman’s voice answered after the second ring. “I’m afraid Sammy can’t come to the phone right now.”

“Who the hell are you?” Dean’s voice was a growl, a cold pit in his stomach beginning to grow.

“Oh, right. I suppose I sound a bit different from the last time we met. I’ll give you a hint. The last time you saw me, you shoved a knife in my back.”

As Dean’s mind flashed to the meat suit they had summoned only hours ago, his eyes widened, locking on to Castiel’s in fear.

“Abaddon.”

TBC….


	3. Act III

Living Legacy  
Act III

Abaddon laughed, its new voice melodic. “Got it in one, Slugger.”

“Where’s my brother?” Dean said steadily, not letting the abject fear he felt come through. He should have known better than to let Sam go off on his own with a newly minted ‘Super Demon’ roaming the area. He had thought it would take time for Abaddon to adjust to its new environment, knowing the wound inflicted by Ruby’s knife had at least caused some damage even if it didn’t outright kill it. Apparently Knights of Hell were Vegas quality quick-change artists. “He’d better be alive or so help me God –“

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You hunters really need to get a new schtick.” The demon’s borrowed voice lost its feigned charm. “Listen to me very carefully, handsome. You want to see your gigantic brother again, you give me what I want.”

“And what’s that?”

Abaddon laughed. “The old man knows. I’ll give you 24 hours and then I give you your brother… in nice, juicy, bite-sized pieces.”

Dean squeezed his eyes closed, trying in vain to ignore the various scenarios, more brutal than elaborate, that were playing in his mind. “Don’t hurt him.”

“Aw, that is so totally adorable.” The demon chuckled, making the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand up. “But Sammy’s fate is entirely up to you, Sport. Remember, 24 hours. Get me the key and your brother keeps all his fingers and toes. I’ll be waiting for your call.”

“Damnit!” Dean barely resisted the urge to throw the phone into the nearby trees. His nerves were on edge, his fear for his brother a physical ache. He clenched his hand around the small device and held on, knowing it was the only lifeline to Sam.

“Abaddon has Sam,” Castiel observed. Whether the angel’s bionic hearing had picked up the other end of the conversation or he was just being intuitive, Dean had no idea. Either way, the answer was a painful ‘yes’.

“He… she,” Dean corrected, his voice dripping with contempt. “She wants to trade Sam for something. A key.” 

“A key to what?”

Dean shook his head. “I have no goddamned idea. But I know who does.”

He turned and rushed back into the cabin, Castiel on his heels. Inside, his gaze zeroed in on Henry, still at the table, paging through the leather journal. The older man glanced up at the intrusion, startled by the hostility in Dean’s eyes.

“Abaddon has Sam.” The hunter stalked to the table and tossed his cell phone onto the surface, the device landing with a resounding clatter. He pressed his fists onto the Formica and leaned forward, radiating anger. 

Henry unconsciously shifted back in his chair, intimidated by his grandson’s menacing bulk. “What?”

“He never contacted Cas,” Dean replied, his head tilting toward the trench-coated man behind him. “The damn demon could’ve grabbed him the second he walked out the door.”

Henry shook his head. “We both heard him drive away,” he reminded the younger man. “Abaddon was not near the cabin.”

“I do not sense any demonic presence now, either,” Castiel offered. The angel stepped toward the table, regarding the older man curiously. “We have not met.”

Henry stood, offering his hand. “I’m Henry Winchester.” Like his grandsons, the angel ignored his offered hand and turned to Dean. 

“Winchester?”

“Another long lost grandfather,” Dean supplied, his eyes still locked on Henry. He pushed off from the table and rose to his full height, folding his arms across his broad chest. “He came through when we summoned Abaddon.”

Castiel regarded Henry without making any attempt to accept the greeting. Dean couldn’t stifle a smug grin at the slight. Henry dropped his arm in a huff.

“You can sense demons?” the older man redirected. He closed the journal still lying open on the table but kept his hand pressed against the worn leather possessively, a gesture that was not missed by the agitated hunter across from him.

“Of course,” Castiel replied. “All angels can sense evil.”

Dean was surprised Henry’s eyes didn’t completely pop out of his head. “Angel?” he stammered, his eyes wide, his mouth agape. His gaze traveled comically up and down Castiel’s vessel, finally coming to rest on the brilliant blue eyes. “You’re an actual angel?”

“I am Castiel. I take it you were not informed of my existence.”

Henry shook his head, sending an accusing look toward Dean. “No. I was not. I am apparently being kept in the dark,” he said accusingly.

Dean didn’t flinch. “There’s a lot of that going around.”

Henry swallowed, his chin lifting defiantly. “I have no idea what –“

“Cut the crap!” Dean’s voice was hard, it was obvious he was through playing games. His eyes narrowed dangerously, his arm rose, one finger pointing to the open door of the cabin. “There is the demon equivalent of Darth Vader out there that has my brother.” He spoke slowly, his voice low and controlled. “It wants something – a key -- and it thinks that you know where it is.” He moved his hand and jabbed the extended finger toward Henry to emphasize his point.

Henry hesitated, a flicker of guilt flashing across his face. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for Dean to know the man was hiding something. He’d already been down this road with one grandfather, he’d be damned if he’d take the same route again -- especially with Sam’s life hanging in the balance.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Henry stood his ground, defiantly returning Dean’s gaze, his expression reticent.

Dean decided to switch tactics.

“Look,” he forced the edge from his voice, letting some of the real fear he felt for his brother season his tone. “I’ve been doing this long enough to know when I’m being lied to, so I know you know exactly what that demon was talking about. Please, Abaddon has my brother. Whatever it is she wants, it can’t be as important as Sam’s life.”

Henry watched Dean’s face a moment, then nodded, moved by the young man’s words. He sighed, his bravado melting like snow before a flame. He lifted a hand and ran it down his slicked back hair, his face softening, his eyes yielding to his grandson’s plea.

“Abaddon is after the knowledge of the Men of Letters.”

“Your library?”

“It’s more than just a library,” Henry passionately explained. “It is centuries of information that could, if used properly and with shrewd acumen, turn the tide of the battle against evil.”

“I have heard of this order,” Castiel interjected. “The Men of Letters were rumored to be the largest repository of knowledge humankind has ever known. But they have always been scholars, philosophers. They have never utilized the accumulated knowledge they have obtained. They are merely custodians of the collective data acquired over the centuries.”

Dean’s eyes searched the angel’s, incredulous. “Are you telling me there’s been a damn archive of ‘How-To’ books concerning all the fuglies in the world for centuries, and a bunch of pencil-necked geeks have been sitting on it instead of using it to save people?” He turned to Henry, his brows high in disbelief. “And you knew about it? You knew about the damn key to the Magic Kingdom and you kept it to yourselves?”

Henry lowered his head, unable to hold Dean’s gaze. “If the location of the archives was known, it would be vulnerable. It had to remain a secret.” His voice lacked conviction, the words uttered as if by rote.

“Then what the hell good is it?” Dean exploded, his arms rising indignantly. “People are out there dying every damn day and you’re worried about keeping a few rituals secret. What’s wrong with you?”

“I felt the same as you!” Henry replied adamantly. “That was why I was attempting to cure the demon. It had somehow discovered the location of the archives. The Men of Letters headquarters is protected, warded against every kind of evil, but Abaddon was determined to find a way to get inside. We were able to trap it, although we didn’t understand just who we had until much later. I convinced the others to allow me to conduct the ritual. If I had succeeded, I may have been able to convince them to open the archives, share the knowledge with those who could use it to battle evil and finally begin to pry the world from its clutches.”

“You wanted to share the information,” Dean clarified. “With hunters.”

Henry took a deep breath, but nodded. “Some hunters. Ones we believed were worthy of our trust.”

Dean had no idea what it would take to be considered ‘worthy’ of Henry’s trust and right now, he couldn’t care less. He needed to save his brother.

“This key, it’s to the archive?”

Henry nodded. “The key is the only access to the archive. It enables and disables the wards.”

“Kind of like a Supernatural ADT system.”

“A what?”

“A home security system.” Dean rolled his eyes, chiding himself for forgetting to think like it was 1972.

“In essence, yes.” Henry replied.

“So where is it?”

“The key?” Henry’s hand unconsciously went to his pocket. Dean hoped the man didn’t play poker. “You can’t seriously be considering handing it over to Abaddon?”

“Dean,” Castiel placed a hand on the hunter’s arm. “Your grandfather is right. The knowledge in the Men of Letters archive cannot fall into the hands of a demon as powerful and cunning as Abaddon.”

“Look,” Dean shook off the angel’s grip and stepped back. “I don’t care if that archive is holding God’s personal email address, I’m not going to let my brother die – or worse – for some dusty stack of books that haven’t done anyone on Earth a damn bit of good for the last two hundred years.” His eyes made contact with Castiel’s then Henry’s, making sure they both understood he was going to do whatever it took to get Sam back in one piece. “I also have no intention of just handing over the key and turning my back. We save Sam first, then we worry about Abaddon.”

Henry was hesitant, surprised when Castiel readily agreed.

“I have no doubt you will do everything in your power to protect the archives.” The angel turned to Henry. “There is no man I would trust to succeed more than your grandson.”

Dean sent silent a thank you to Castiel, stunned to have such a stalwart endorsement from the angel considering all that had transpired between them. He knew he probably didn’t deserve it after what he had said before, but he was grateful for Cas’ unwavering support. He could see it was enough to sway Henry, and his gratitude to the angel increased.

Henry reverently pulled a flat, metal box from his pocket, holding it in the upturned palm of one hand. He slid the intricately carved top to one side, revealing an old-fashioned brass skeleton key secured within the velvet-lined confines of the box. He held the key out to Dean.

“This key holds more knowledge than you or I will ever understand.” He said respectfully. “I’m entrusting it to you.”

Dean took the key, surprised at its weight. The metal was warm under his fingers – probably magically induced -- and the metal shone with a lustrous gleam, the patina of its age adding to its beauty.

“I’ll guard it with my life,” he promised. 

After he used it to save Sam’s.

………………………………

Sam glared at the demon who tossed his cell phone onto the counter of the convenience store when it finished taunting his brother. The unmoving legs and feet of the teenager who normally worked the register were still visible from behind the counter and Sam felt a surge of anger at the kid’s senseless death. He would kill Abaddon… as soon as he could move.

The demon was powerful, holding Sam at bay with little effort. He was thrust up against one of the refrigerated glass beverage cases on the far wall of the small store, his arms and legs pinned in a familiar feeling of helplessness. Normally, it would take considerable concentration for a demon to hold him, its mojo focused on pressing his fragile human body tighter and tighter into the unwavering construct behind them, but Abaddon seemed much more adept at multi-tasking than most demons they’d run across. She had been able to keep him stuck to the refrigerated unit, turning most of her attention to the conversation with Dean. Sam hadn’t been able to hear his brother’s side of the exchange, but he could easily imagine Dean’s responses. He had no doubt Dean would find whatever it was Abaddon wanted, he just hoped his brother wouldn’t let his worry for Sam overtake common sense.

“Big brother seemed pretty shook up,” Abaddon said in a sugary sweet voice. The woman it had possessed was pretty; red hair, early thirties, tall with an athletic shape. She was wearing dark jeans and a slim fitting black t-shirt, probably out running errands, maybe, when her day had gone to hell -- literally. Sam had been taken by surprise when he’d walked into the store, merely nodding at the woman who was standing behind the counter, not even registering that he’d never seen her working there before. Before he could even open the cooler door, he’d felt the prickle on his skin – a sensation he was sadly familiar with. He’d barely had time to turn, his hand halfway to the grip of his gun tucked into the back of his jeans, before he was slammed against the cooler door, frozen like the bags of ice inside. 

The woman had laughed, sauntering out from behind the counter, patting him down until she’d come up with his gun and cell phone. Sam fervently wished he still had the power to pull demons from the humans they possessed. He would have loved to wipe the smug smile off the bitch’s face.

He couldn’t help but feel sorry for the poor woman Abaddon was wearing. He knew from experience, you didn’t just bounce back from being possessed. Demons rode the humans hard, and even the ones that survived possession sometimes wished for a quick end to their horror – a permanent end. Sam wondered if the woman was aware of what was happening to her, if the demon had allowed her to feel and see what it was doing with her body. Meg had allowed him to see some of the things she’d done when she had taken Sam’s body over, but he was sure it was just to mess with him, torture him as much as what she forced his body to do was to torture Dean. But most demons didn’t care enough about the people they possessed to give any thought to their victim’s horror or discomfort. They were nothing more than meatsuits. Just a tool used and discarded.

“If looks could kill…” the demon sauntered across the scuffed up floor, stepping into Sam’s personal space and laying her well manicured hands on the hunter’s chest. “I like a human with spirit. Makes the dying much more fun.”

Sam turned his nose up at the odor of sulfur on the demon’s breath. “Screw you,” Sam said, channeling his big brother.

Abaddon’s borrowed eyes widened in amusement. “Is that an invitation, Sam?”

The hunter didn’t bother to hide his disgust.

“Oh come on, loverboy,” the demon taunted. “Seems you have a thing for the demonic type.” The woman’s face broke into a smile. “I knew Ruby, did you know that? Can’t say much for your taste, though. But maybe we can remedy that?” She moved in closer, her hot breath on his neck. “I can show you what the real deal is like.”

Sam schooled his face, turning away from the demon. “You know an awful lot for being pulled into this decade less than a day ago.”

Abaddon stepped back and shrugged, her mouth lifted into a knowing smile. “I adapt fast,” she said conspiratorially. “And I have a few tricks those run-of-the-mill demons you normally play with don’t.”

Sam turned back to her, confused. 

She smiled, “Oh, don’t act so naïve, Sam. I am, after all, a Knight of Hell. You had to know I would be special.”

A niggling idea entered his head and his eyes widened as comprehension dawned. 

“See?“ Abaddon patted his chest like one would pat a dog. “Not so dumb after all, huh? You’re an open book to me, Sam Winchester. Your mind is so… rich and engaging. It’s just so ripe for the picking. But I promise to take it slow – let your mind reveal everything to me.”

Sam’s heart began to beat hard against his ribs, his fear growing as he realized he was powerless to stop the demon from raping his mind. “Get out of my head!” He could feel her there now. Feel the pull in his mind, an evil, oily presence that he recoiled from. His resistance made her push all the harder.

“Come on, Sam. You can’t fight me. Maybe before, but not now. We both know it. I like to know who I’m dealing with, especially since I plan on sticking around for a while now that those damn archangels are… otherwise occupied. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“I’m not sure Crowley is going to be too happy about that.” Sam managed to say between clenched teeth. She was right, he couldn’t stop her from reading his mind, but he could make sure the thoughts at the forefront weren’t ones she would enjoy.

“Yes, Crowley.” Abaddon cocked her head, a condescending snicker escaping between the ruby red lips. “How exactly did that creepy little bagpipe salesman slither his way to the top?”

“Maybe you should ask him.” 

“Oh you can count on it,” the demon purred. “Right after I have a little fun with you and your brother.”

Sam grinned. “We’ve beaten worse.”

“So I see. You have been busy, haven’t you? Azazel, Lillith, Alistair – now there’s a guy who knew how to have a good time. 

“He died screaming,” Sam chided. “Just like you will.”

Abaddon’s hand flashed out, striking the young man across the cheek. Sam’s head snapped to the right, slamming into the cold glass he was being held against. There was a moment of blinding pain, quickly replaced by a dull ache that throbbed in time with his heart. Sam flexed his mouth and squinted his left eye in an attempt to lessen the sting the blow inflicted. It was a stupid thing to do, antagonizing the demon, something more suited to his brother’s bravado than his own, but it was totally worth it to see Abaddon lose her cool. He could see why Dean made a point of poking the bears. He held onto the pain, letting it fill his mind, blocking the flow of memories Abaddon was trying to access.

The demon collected herself. “You can’t hide the truth from me, Sam. I know all about you and your brother, what you did to my friends, what you did to Lucifer.”

“I put him back where he belonged.”

Abaddon chuckled. “You probably did the world a favor. And dragging that pompous ass Michael with him? That was inspired.”

Sam ignored the jeer. After all this time, knowing that their half-brother was trapped in the cage with Lucifer and Michael still haunted him. He knew it haunted Dean, too.

“What is this key you were talking about?” Sam switched topics, hoping to distract the demon with the deflection.

Abaddon walked back across the store, grabbing a 3 Musketeers bar from the rack beneath the counter. “I guess Henry wasn’t being terribly forthcoming, huh?” She ripped open the candy bar and took a bite. “I’ll bet he didn’t even tell you what he was doing when you and your brother so graciously invited us over.”

Sam didn’t answer, knowing Abaddon would continue whether he contributed or not. If they’d learn one thing about demons, they couldn’t help the monologiing. He buried the thought of Henry, not letting his connection to his newly acquainted grandfather into the forefront of his thoughts.

Abaddon took another bite and chewed, gazing at Sam, a gleeful expression on her borrowed face. “Grandfather, huh? That is so precious.” She set the partially eaten candy bar down on the counter and leaned against it, crossing her arms across her chest. “What you don’t know, Sam, is that good old Grandpa Henry is part of a secret society of psychos who think they can rid the world of my kind. Pretty delusional if you ask me. Of course, you probably think it’s a groovy idea, don’t you? You being a hunter and all.” She smiled, a small smudge of chocolate staining her front tooth. “After all, you are the Boy King, right? Lucifer’s true vessel? How did that feel? Being that close to a god?”

“Lucifer is no god.”

“Angel, Devil, God…” Abaddon shrugged. “All the same, really.”

A car pulled up to one of the pumps outside, and Sam’s heart dropped into his stomach at the look of delight on the demon’s face.

“Oh, goody,” she said with an evil grin. “New toys to play with.” Abaddon moved around the counter, clapping her hands like a kid at Christmas. She waved to the young couple as they stepped out of the silver Cherokee. The man rounded the SUV to the gas pump and began to fill the tank, as the woman made her way toward the door. “You’d better hope big brother comes through soon, Sam, or this little corner of the world could get very, very messy.”

Sam opened his mouth to beg, plead, demand Abaddon leave the couple alone, but the buzz of his cell phone rang out before he got the chance. Abaddon picked up the phone, smiling as she read the caller ID.

“And here I thought you were the psychic one, Sam.”

……………………………

“Dean, anyone ever tell you that you have impeccable timing?”

“I’ve got the key.” The hunter was in no mood for banter. “I want to talk to Sam.”

“I really don’t think you’re in any position to make demands, Sugar. But you can trust me, your brother is just fine.”

Dean scoffed a laugh. “Trust a demon? Not a chance, bitch.”

“Ouch. If we’re through with the tete-a-tete, how about we get down to business.”

“Fine. Where and when?”

Abaddon watched as the woman strolled around the small store, giving a cursory look to Sam who remained pressed against the cooler door. The woman grabbed a bag of chips and two bottles of Snapple from the cooler furthest from Sam and edged around the aisle, laying her selections on the counter. Abaddon, not taking the phone from her ear, waved the woman’s offer of cash away with a pleasant smile, mouthing the words ‘on the house’ to the stunned patron. The woman looked outside to where her husband was replacing the spout into the fuel dispenser, her brows rising as she turned back to the demon. Abaddon waved her off, her smile unwavering. The woman shrugged, gathered her treasures scurrying from the store with a grin and a mouthed ‘thanks’. Abaddon waved merrily as the woman walked out the door, rushing across the asphalt to her husband, explaining to him their good fortune. The husband looked up, sending an incredulous smile and wave to the demon through the window. 

Sam watched as the woman handed one of the bottles to her husband, silently praying for them to get in their car and drive away. As they cheered each other, clinking their bottles together, then put them to their lips, Sam glanced at Abaddon, a chill not from the refrigerated cooler at his back running up his spine.

“I really liked the ambiance of that little church back in the woods,” Abaddon continued her conversation with Dean, her eyes watching the couple outside as they both drank deeply from the bottles. Her eyes crinkled in amusement as the couple grabbed their throats. Sam could almost hear the glass shattering as the bottles fell to the pavement, wanting to close his eyes to what he was seeing, but knowing he owed it to the innocent people not to. He caught the woman’s eyes as she fell to their knees, trying to send her his apologies for not being able to warn her, let alone save her.

Sam watched, horrified, as blood gushed from the couple’s mouths, their eyes huge in their startled faces. First the woman toppled onto the pavement, flopping like a fish out of water for a moment before lying still, her gaze staring unseeing at the bright sky above. The man fell against the car, convulsing like his wife before quieting. He slumped partially upright against the wheel-well, his eyes locked onto the store, boring like an accusation straight into Sam’s. Chest tight, Sam’s breath caught in his throat, knowing they were both dead. He closed his eyes and let his head drop, fighting the burn of anger against the back of his eyes. 

Abaddon’s cheerful voice filled the silence as she turned from the scene outside. “How about we meet back at the church in two hours? Come alone, Dean. Little giant brother is counting on you.” Abaddon ended the call, giving Sam a satisfied smile from across the room. “Showtime, Sammy. Let’s hope your big brother is smarter than he looks.”

…………………………………………. 

Dean approached the road leading to the church, pulled the Impala to a stop but didn’t cut the engine. He placed an arm across the back of the seat and turned toward Castiel who was awkwardly perched in the center of the back. “You’d better get out of here, Cas. I don’t know how far Abaddon’s powers extend, but we don’t want to chance it knowing we’ve got backup.”

The angel nodded in agreement and disappeared from view, a subtle flutter of wings echoing inside the car. 

“Wow,” Henry breathed softly. 

Dean snorted a laugh. “Wait ‘til he beams in two inches from your face unexpectedly. Trust me, not so cool.”

He shifted the car into drive and carefully turned down the rutted dirt road between the trees.

“How on earth did you boys harness an honest to goodness angel?” Henry’s voice was filled with awe as he turned back toward the front of the car.

“That’s a long story,” Dean evaded the question. “Let’s just say he was assigned to help us out once and decided to stick around after the job was finished.”

Henry was astute enough to see he wasn’t going to get a better answer. “So he’s your friend?”

Dean licked his lips, not wanting to delve into the confusion that characterized his relationship with the angel at the moment. “Something like that,” he hedged. He glanced at Henry from the corner of his eye. “You okay to do this?” he asked, deftly changing the subject. “I can handle it alone.”

Henry shook his head. “No. I can do it.” He took a deep breath, his hand brushing the silver gun that lay in his lap. “I just hope it works.”

…………………………………..

Dean pulled up to the clearing in front of the old, dilapidated church and killed the Impala’s engine. He sat back, eying the open door of the small building, feeling the hair on the back of his neck stand at attention.

Abaddon was here.

“You think it’s here?” Henry inquired, as if reading his thoughts. His voice was shaking, his gaze moved from the church to Dean, brows arched, eyes wide in question.

“It’s here.” Dean was sure of it. 

Henry nodded, taking a deep breath and releasing it through his nose. He handed the gun to Dean, watching as the younger man checked the clip, primed the chamber, then leaned forward to tuck it away in his belt behind his back. Dean then picked up the brass box that housed the key to the archives and place it into the outer pocket of his blue canvas jacket. Once set, he turned to Henry.

“You ready for this?”

Henry nodded once, firmly, shoving the gun into the pocket of his borrowed green jacket. “Let’s go get your brother.”

……………………………………

Abaddon was leaning against the far wall, Sam seated, Indian style, in the center of the room. His hands were bound behind him and he was dead center of the useless devil’s trap they had originally set for the demon. At Dean’s look of contempt at his brother’s placement, the demon shrugged. “I thought it was ironic. The hunter becomes the hunted.”

“More like cliché.” His eyes locked onto Sam’s, anger flaring at the bruise rising across his brother’s cheek. “You okay, Sammy?”

The younger man nodded, the relief at seeing his brother apparent on his face.

Abaddon laughed. “Aww, I think little Sammy missed you.” She pushed off the wall and crossed to Sam, careful to stay outside the trap despite its damage. “I see that Sam was the brains of the outfit,” the demon continued, her eyes shifting from Dean to Henry with amusement. “Apparently your grasp of the English language is tentative at best. Alone usually means alone, Dean, but, in this instance, I’ll give you a pass.” She turned her attention to Henry, who was still standing near the doorway, partially hidden behind the bulk of his grandson. “Hello, old man. It’s a pleasure to see you again.” The demon’s tone suggested it was anything but.

“Anyone ever tell you demons you talk too much?” Dean stepped around to the side, pulling the demon’s attention back to himself and away from Henry. “I swear you sons-a-bitches just don’t know when to shut up.”

Dean ignored his brother’s eye roll. Sam shook his head fondly, trying but not completely able to hide a grin. It wasn’t like this was the first time he’d witnessed his brother bait a demon. It was obvious he’d expected nothing less.

Abaddon wasn’t as amused.

“You are one insolent little human, aren’t you?” The demon’s face hardened in irritation. “Straight down to business, huh? Fine. Where’s the key?”

Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out the brass box. Abaddon’s eyes lit up immediately. “Let my brother go.”

The demon’s smile of delight turned to one of malevolence. “Did you actually believe I would let any of you go?” 

Dean’s eyes narrowed, his lips thinned as he returned the grin. “No.” 

Abaddon’s smile faded. She hadn’t thought to read the hunter’s mind, believing his fear for his brother would make him stupid. She tried, but couldn’t seem to get a grasp of his thoughts, his mind not as easy to breach as his brother’s. It was as if he was acting on impulse, without conscious thought, the haphazard jumble of information too much for her to sort and process in this split second of time. But there was one thing that was eminently clear -- she had wildly underestimated Dean Winchester.

Dean tossed the box toward the demon, all eyes tracking it through the air as it landed inside the circle, on the other side of Sam. Dean snaked an arm behind him and pulled his gun, leveling it at the demon. “Now, Henry!” 

The older man dove toward the corner of the small church, scooping up the spray paint can Dean had discarded earlier. Even though he was expecting it, Henry jumped as a shot rang out in the confines of the tiny building and he stumbled, going to his knees. He looked up to see the demon’s head snap back, the bullet hitting it dead center in the forehead. Momentarily marveling at what a fine shot his grandson appeared to be, Henry collected his wits and scurried toward the devil’s trap, frantically shaking the can and filling in the scuff he himself had created when they had fallen into this timeline, making the trap viable again. 

Not needing a prompt from his brother, Sam launched himself at the demon. Without the use of his hands, it took the young man a moment to maneuver around the meatsuit, but with surprising grace for one so large, he was able to spin and kick out with a foot, catching the distracted demon behind the knees, causing her to stumble forward into the trap. Sam rapidly rolled to the side, settling onto his knees just outside the circle that now ensnared the demon.

Abaddon raised a hand to her head, glaring at Dean as he approached the edge of the circle, silver gun still aimed steadily at the demon.

“What did you do?”

“Binding link,” he replied with a smug grin. “Carved into the bullet.” He tapped the barrel of the gun to his own head to emphasize his point. “You should be locked up tight inside there as long as that bullet stays inside that noggin.” 

Abaddon’s eyes narrowed, fury shooting from them like a laser. She leaned down and scooped up the brass box at her feet. “I still have what I wanted.”

Dean pulled the brass key from his pocket and held it up, his eyes tapering to slits to match the demons. “Guess again.” 

Abaddon tore the top from the box, letting out a shriek of frustration before hurling the empty container down in anger. Breathing hard, the demon placed both hands on her curvaceous hips and pursed her lips, looking down her nose at the hunter. “So now what, sport? I’m trapped in here, but you can’t exorcize me. Looks like you’ve maneuvered yourself into a corner.”

Dean tilted his head, his eyes skimming past the demon, drawing everyone’s attention to the trenchcoated angel who had appeared right behind Abaddon, inside the trap. 

“We thought of that, too. “ He nodded his head and the demon turned, true concern appearing on the borrowed face. “Meet Castiel.” Dean winked at the demon as her eyes met his once again. She backed up, away from the angel, stepping to the edge of the circle, trapped inside. Dean clicked his tongue, one side of his lips drawing up into a grin. “Gotcha.”

TBC…


	4. Act IV

Living Legacy  
Act IV

“An angel?” Abaddon sneered, turning defiantly back to Castiel. She raised herself up in an attempt to intimidate, but the act was transparent. Dean could tell she was scared. “You can’t kill me you winged freak.”

“If I wanted to harm you,” Castiel responded, his voice calm but forceful. “I assure you, I could.”

Abaddon looked from the angel back to Dean, her brows furrowed in confusion. “Then what the hell do you want?”

Dean smiled. “We need you to do us a solid.”

The demon snorted a laugh. “A little young for 70’s slang, aren’t you handsome?”

The hunter shrugged. “Just trying to appeal to your sense of irony.”

Abaddon, curious, turned her back on the angel, crossed her arms over her chest and gave Dean her full attention. She cocked her head, letting a grin pull at her lips. “Color me intrigued, Winchester. 

“We need smoke.”

She chortled in amusement. “You want to light up with me? Seriously? Pretty trippy, and not exactly what I was expecting.”

“Not that kind of smoke.” Dean slid the gun and the brass key into the pockets of his jacket, his eyes never leaving the demon’s face. His grin increased as hers faded in understanding.

“And just what would you need that for?”

He shrugged, stepping forward, almost within reach of the demon, stopping just far enough outside the circle to be safe. Dean was aware of Sam struggling to his feet and moving around the outside of the trap, crossing behind him to Henry, but he kept his attention focused on the demon. As soon as Henry freed his brother’s hands, Dean knew Sam’s curiosity would start getting the better of him, and he hoped Henry would be able to hold the younger man at bay, allowing time for their plan to play out.

“It’s kind of need to know.”

Abaddon’s eyes narrowed as she studied the man before her. “If you want my help, I need to know.” She stared at him, her eyes narrowing as she tried to see into his mind. “A spell? You actually think I would help you with some stupid plan to send all demons back to Hell?”

Dean, forewarned by Cas, had expected the demon to read his mind. He let a look of surprise filter across his face, quickly schooling his features into a casual smile – an acting job worthy of an Emmy. He glanced back at his brother, who shrugged in apology, obviously not aware Dean was already alerted to Abaddon’s special tricks. If Sam was buying his act, Dean could assume the demon was, too. He needed to keep her guessing, off balance, believing she had the upper hand. He let his eyes drift to Castiel, still positioned inside the devil’s trap, his angel sword tight in his grip, waiting for Dean’s instructions. “It doesn’t look like you have much of a choice.”

Abaddon turned her head, eyes darting to the side, her grin faltering as she regarded the angel. After a moment, she turned back and set her shoulders, huffing a breath through her nose. “And what’s in it for me? You’re going to kill me anyway. Why should I even consider helping you?”

Dean tilted his head in acknowledgment. “Self preservation? I promise not to let Cas stick you with his little friend.” 

Abaddon raised an eyebrow. “Ooo, kinky.”

Dean rolled his eyes at the smirk on her face. He tilted his head and bobbed his own brow at the angel in apology, but Castiel’s expression remained dispassionate . With a huff of bewilderment, he turned his attention back to Abaddon. 

“We exorcize you… send you back to Hell ahead of the swarm,” he explained. “A demon with your…” he made a show of letting his eyes rake up and down her borrowed form, “… attributes… should have no problem clawing your way topside again.”

Abaddon stared at the hunter. She tried to tear into his mind, but found she couldn’t get a clear reading. It infuriated her and her lips thinned, livid that a mere human could thwart her so easily. She had no idea where he had learned the trick. No mere human was going to get the better of her.

“I’ve had stronger demons than you inside my head,” Dean said, his eyes narrowing dangerously. He didn’t need to read her mind to know what she was thinking. Her frustration was written on her face. “You learn a lot in Hell.”

Abaddon swallowed hard. She’d forgotten that this human had spent time on Alistair’s rack. She wished she had more time to find out just how much he had learned. “Fine,” she agreed, her voice clipped. She dropped her arms, leveling her gaze at the hunter. “But when I do find my way back, I’m coming straight for you.” She delivered the threat smoothly, but the underlying spite was clear.

Dean merely snorted a laugh through his nose. “Get in line, sweetheart.” He shifted his gaze, giving Castiel a crisp nod. 

Abaddon turned back to the angel, flinching as he brought the blade up toward her, the sharp edge uncomfortably close to her face. She unconsciously leaned back, watching him, her face filled with loathing as he lifted her arm and touched the blade to the soft skin near her wrist. The angel uttered a few words in Enochian, causing her to cringe as the sound grated in her ears. Gasping as a small amount of dark smoke filtered from the incision the blade produced, she cringed as if in pain, watching the shadowy vapor coalesce inside the small glass vial held within the angel’s hand. Once the vial was full, Castiel capped it and placed it back into the pocket of his trench coat. 

Throwing a savage look at the angel, Abaddon turned back to Dean, one hand clamped over the still smoldering wound.

“Now send me back.” 

Her eyes widened as the hunter’s smile faded, his face hardening, his gaze dark. He reached back, his hand closing over the handle of the long, curved machete his grandfather had pulled from under his own jacket. She took a step back, colliding with the form of the angel, unyielding behind her. Her surprise gave way to anger then fear as she stared into the cold, flat eyes of the hunter. “We had a deal.”

Dean hefted the lethal looking machete, gripping it in both hands like a batter in the box. “I lied.” 

It was a perfect swing.

……………………………….

It took some time for them to dispose of the demon, burying her head, torso and limbs in separate boxes miles apart. The hunters had watched their grandfather’s face turn green, the man not appreciating the finer points of the job, and Sam couldn’t help but feel for him, knowing this part of hunting wasn’t for the faint of heart.

He had been impressed with Dean’s plan to obtain the demon smoke and render Abaddon harmless, though he’d wished there had been some way to save the woman Abaddon had been possessing. He knew his brother had had little choice, but Sam found himself longing for the days when he could have pulled the demon from the woman’s body, allowing her a chance to live. But even if he had been able to yank Abaddon out, the woman was still gone. Castiel had been explicit, guaranteeing them that no human could withstand the possession of a Knight of Hell and live. Even if her body had survived the ordeal, her mind would never recover. The angel had assured them they had done the woman a favor. 

Sam was more than willing to believe him but Dean wasn’t completely convinced, and Sam knew that killing the innocent woman would be one more weight bearing down on his brother’s soul. Her death was on them. They had brought Abaddon here, allowed the demon the chance to escape and possess her. What had happened to her was their fault and the responsibility of that decision was a burden they would have to bear for the rest of their lives. But if the spell worked, if they could rid the world of demons, save hundreds of people from the same fate, maybe some of that weight would be lifted. They had taken out of the last remaining Knight of Lucifer’s army, trapping it so that it could never harm a human soul ever again. That had to count for something, right? After everything that had gone down with Bobby, with Cas, with Dick Roman and Purgatory, they desperately needed a win. Dean needed a win. Sam just hoped it would be enough to keep their heads above water for a while.

As soon as they packed the last of the dirt down over Abaddon’s now buried head, they stepped back, wordlessly staring down at the grave.

“Is she dead?” Henry asked, stepping in between his grandsons. His eyes were locked on the packed soil, his hands in his pockets, his head bowed.

“Abaddon cannot be killed by conventional methods,” Cas responded. He stood on the opposite side of the small mound of earth, his eyes also glued to the demon’s grave. “But as long as the binding link remains buried inside it, the demon will not be able to escape. It is not dead, but it will be trapped in this prison for an eternity without help.”

“Do you think anyone will look for her?”

Sam turned to regard his brother, sensing he wasn’t talking about the demon. “I don’t know.” He picked up his shovel, hefting it onto one shoulder, stretching his arm and balancing his hand inside the handle. In some ways he hoped the woman had someone who cared enough about her to miss her, but he also wished, for Dean’s sake, that her death would go unnoticed. “We probably shouldn’t stick around to find out.” Sam hated to leave the safety of Rufus’ cabin – it had become their only home since Bobby’s house had burned to the ground – but it was fairly close to the church and the convenience store and while they were confident they hadn’t been spotted yet, they couldn’t take the risk of being seen now, especially considering the carnage Abaddon had left behind.

“We need to find someplace safe for Kevin.” Dean picked his shovel up and turned toward the Impala, not waiting to see if the rest of their bedraggled party followed.

“I can help with that,” Henry announced as they approached the car. 

Dean opened the trunk, tossed the shovel in then stood aside waiting as Sam followed suit. He closed the trunk and wiped his hands against his jeans before turning to their grandfather and eyeing him coolly.

“You have a time share in Boca you been holding out on us?”

Henry laughed, shaking his head. “No. Better.” He nodded toward Dean’s jacket, waiting for the younger man to catch on.

Dean’s brows rose in understanding and fished the brass key from the depths of his left pocket. “The Men of Letters’ Archive?”

Henry nodded, a smile ghosting on his lips. “It’s warded, secure and secluded. A perfect place to keep a prophet safe from evil.” He looked from Dean to Sam, his eyes taking in the weariness of his grandson’s faces. “And a good place for a hunter to safely rest.”

They had filled Sam in on Henry’s extracurricular activities as they drove between burial sites, Dean unable to hide his amusement over his geeky little brother’s unabashed interest in the ancient order.

“I’m sure Sammy will have an aneurism if this place is everything you say it is.” Dean dodged his brother’s elbow, smirking at the gleam of enthusiasm in the younger man’s eyes.

“There’s still one problem,” Sam sobered, his eyes finding Henry’s. “We need to get you back to your own time. I still remember Dad saying you and he made up.”

“Perhaps I can help with that,” Castiel stepped forward, his blue eyes flashing in the late afternoon sun.

“Is your mojo back to full power?” Dean asked, not wanting the angel to take on more than he was capable of handling. 

“I believe I have enough… mojo… to transport Henry to the correct time.”

Dean gazed at the angel for a moment, assessing. He nodded once, concluding Cas was being truthful and not simply trying to make up for past transgressions. His trust in Castiel was far from restored, but the angel had been there when they needed him, and if he could return Henry to his own time – Dean would be grateful.

“Okay,” he sighed. “If you’re willing, Henry, Angel Airways it is. Make sure you get some Pepto when you hit ground. Trust me, you’ll need it.”

………………………………….. 

Since Henry hadn’t arrived with anything other than the clothes on his back, it didn’t take long for him to make himself ready for his journey back to 1972. They had returned to the cabin at Henry’s insistence so he could say goodbye to Kevin. He’d spent a bit of time with the teenager and wanted him to know how much he had enjoyed his company. 

After Sam explained their plan to move their base of operations to the much more secure Men of Letter’s bunker, Kevin had plied Henry with a myriad of questions. Henry, delighted with the prophet’s enthusiasm, told him he would find all the answers – and more – inside the archives. He made Kevin promise to treat them with respect and wished him luck in whatever life brought him.

“Wait,” Kevin stopped, understanding that Henry was telling him goodbye dawning as the older man gave him a warm hug. “You aren’t coming with us?”

Henry shook his head, his hands on the teenager’s shoulders, squeezing affectionately. “I’m afraid not. I have… another place I need to be.” He caught Dean’s eye over Kevin’s head, pleased at the minute nod the hunter returned. “But I know you will be okay, Kevin,” he assured, returning his attention to the prophet. “And I know you will make us all proud.”

Kevin smiled at the conviction in Henry’s voice. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

As soon as Kevin left to pack up his things in the back room, Henry turned to his grandsons. Sam and Dean stood behind the couch, shoulder to shoulder, a united front, as Henry believed they should be. 

“I guess this is goodbye.”

Sam snorted a soft sigh through his nose, his lips twisted in a sad grin. “I wish we had more time, Henry.” He stepped forward, opening his arms, welcoming his grandfather’s embrace. 

The older man nodded, patting Sam’s back with his hand, squeezing his eyes against the burn developing behind them. “Me, too, Sam. Me, too.”

When Sam stepped back, Henry turned to Dean, not expecting the same response, surprised when the older brother stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him. 

“Say hi to Dad for us.”

Dean’s hug was brief, the hunter noticeably less comfortable than his brother with the gesture, but Henry couldn’t stop the tear that trickled out from below his closed lids. He nodded. “I will. Of course, he’ll think I’m nuts.”

Dean laughed, his eyes softening as the memory of meeting his father in the coffee shop in 1973 surfaced. 

“Hey Winchester, say hi to your old man.”

“Not as much as you’d think.”

Dean moved back next to his brother, allowing Castiel to step between the three men.

“Are you ready?” he asked Henry, his hand hovering near then older man’s head.

“Are you coming with me?” Henry asked, his eyes locked on the angel’s hand, his body bending away betraying his nervousness. “I would really like it if you would accompany me… if that’s possible?”

Castiel looked back at the hunters, not sure what the proper protocol would be.

Sam shrugged. “It is his first time,” he reasoned.

Dean nodded in agreement. “It is quite a trip,” he agreed. He turned to Castiel and ginned mischievously. “Just don’t stay out past curfew, Cas. You know how Sammy gets.”

Sam rolled his eyes, an affectionate grin lifting his lips.

“I will return promptly,” the angel replied without a trace of humor. He turned back to Henry. “Are you ready?” he repeated, waiting patiently as the man took in the faces of his grandsons.

“I’m proud of you boys,” he said, his voice heavy with emotion. “I never got to know you as kids, and I wish I could have, but I want you to know, no man could ask for two finer grandsons. Your father raised you well, and I’m glad I had the chance to know you both.”

Sam nodded at the older man’s heartfelt words, his eyes bright, his smile tremulous.

Dean gradually raised his eyes, capturing Henry’s for a moment before dropping them to the floor between them. It was just a moment, but the emotion in those familiar green eyes would be something Henry would never forget. He swallowed, his throat thick and nodded at Castiel. “I’m ready.”

Castiel lifted a hand and gently touched Henry’s forehead…

……………………………..

Henry could tell he was home. The sounds, the feel, even the air was different. He opened his eyes, not aware he had closed them when Castiel had touched him, surprised to see the angel still standing before him. They found themselves on a suburban street in Lawrence, outside Henry’s home. He looked around, wondering if anyone had noticed two men pop into existence from nowhere like magic.

His neighbor, Bob, was out mowing his lawn and waved as he turned the mower toward the back yard. Henry waved back. 

Apparently dropping in from the sky was perfectly normal.

“They would not have perceived our arrival,” Castiel explained as if he could read Henry’s mind. “It is a bit of misdirection we have come to use to… keep everything under the carpet.”

“Um, rug,” Henry corrected, one side of his mouth lifting in a grin. “I think you mean ‘under the rug.’”

Castiel nodded without argument. “Why did you truly want me to accompany you?” he asked without preamble, catching Henry off-guard. “I do not believe someone such as yourself, who is familiar with the supernatural, would be hesitant to be transported through time.”

Henry outright laughed. “Hard to fool an angel, huh?”

“Difficult, but not impossible,” Castiel intoned regretfully.

Henry frowned in confusion but decided not to ask for clarification. He turned and began walking up the cement path to the house. “I wanted to talk to you alone.”

“That could have been accomplished in 2013.”

“Yes, but I wanted to speak with you about something and I didn’t want you allowing my grandsons to talk you out of it.”

Castiel followed the old man to the porch, waiting while he took a seat on the peeling swing that hung down on rusted chains. “What is it you wished me not to discuss with Dean and Sam?”

“I was speaking with Kevin and he informed me that there were still two ingredients the boys needed to complete their spell.”

Cas nodded, tilting his head, puzzled. “The actual meanings of the two remaining ingredients are still uncertain. As far as I know, the Prophet has not yet been able to determine what constitutes ‘The Word’ or ‘Devotion of the Resolute’.”

Henry nodded. “I believe I do.” He stilled the movement of the swing, his eyes taking on a distant quality. “I think it means the sacrifice of someone’s devotion.” He focused his gaze back on the angel. “I want you to take my memories.”

Cas’ brow furrowed and he shook his head. “I do not understand.”

“Devotion of the Resolute,” Henry explained. “Both Kevin and I believe it means the complete devotion someone has shown for someone or something in their life. I have devoted most of my time and energy to my work. Because of that I have forged a deep divide between me and my only son. I would gladly sacrifice that devotion for the chance to reconnect with John. Dean and Sam have given me that chance, and knowing it would help my grandsons in their quest would be more than I could ever hope of achieving through the Letters.”

“You would not remember them.”

Henry nodded, already aware of what he would be giving up. “I know. I’m not supposed to even know they exist. I had a chance not many people get, and I am willing to give it up to help them in their mission. What they’ve undertaken is a noble, righteous pursuit. If I can help in this small way, I will consider my life worthwhile… even if I can never know I contributed at all.”

“But they will know.”

A sad smile graced the old man’s face. “Yes. They will. And hopefully, they will understand why it was so important for me to do this for them.”

Castiel stood, gazing at the old man, his mind whirling with indecision. He knew the Winchesters had placed their grandfather’s wellbeing in his hands and he did not want to cause further harm to the tenuous relationship between Dean and himself. But he could tell Henry was adamant, his belief that his sacrifice would bring his grandsons one step closer to their goal was something the angel could not dispute. Somehow, he knew Henry was right. He knew the man’s memories would qualify as the next ingredient for the spell.

And Henry was willing to give them. Castiel could see no other way for the Winchesters to obtain that ingredient except through someone’s sacrifice. It was fitting for that someone to be a Winchester. Dean and Sam would be upset – at first – but Castiel hoped his friends would see that their grandfather’s sacrifice was one he made on his own volition. 

The angel nodded, his decision made. “Very well. But I will only take those memories pertaining to your work. I will leave the memories of your son intact.”

Henry sighed in relief. “Thank you. When John returns home, we can make a new start.” 

“May I ask you something?”

Henry shrugged. “Better do it now.”

“Why did you wait to make this offer until now?”

Henry chuckled. “Do you think my grandsons would’ve gone along with it?”

“No,” Castiel answered immediately, honestly. “I believe they would’ve done whatever necessary to dissuade you.”

Henry raised a hand, palm up. “That’s why. They’re good boys, and they’ve been through so much. I couldn’t put that on them.” He pushed himself up from the swing, stilling the movement with one hand. “Tell the boys… “ He stopped, his lips pursing as he struggled to put his thoughts into words. “Just tell them I love them.”

………………………………………

The short, non-descript man pulled his sweater closer around his torso, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. He watched as the two men entered the small house, understanding of why he had been pulled to this location beginning to dawn. He easily perceived the trench coated man as a fellow angel, though one he was unfamiliar with, and from a quick reading of his aura, discovered the other man was about to sacrifice a part of himself for the cause. 

It meant the tablet had been found and interpreted.

It meant there was a prophet.

It meant there was someone undertaking the quest.

He had waited a long time for this to come to pass.

He hid himself from view as the angel on the porch turned, his blue eyes searching the quiet Kansas street, his brow furrowed as if he sensed he was being watched. 

Metatron waited, hidden, until the angel, his search availing nothing, turned and followed the human into the house, closing the door behind him. Metatron stepped from the curb, onto the street in front of the small home, and regarded the house with knowing eyes, regret, compassion and sadness merging with resolution in his gaze. 

He had known this day would come. Watching. Hiding. Disappointed, but resolved by what had come to pass.

He had never doubted God’s word. He had merely prayed for Him to be mistaken. He should have known better.

But now his mission could be fulfilled. 

It was time.

……………………………………….

Dean tossed the last of the bags into the Impala’s trunk, closing it with a resounding thud. He laid a hand on the shining black metal, giving it a gentle pat. Despite the number of times he and Sam had performed the pack-up and move ritual over the years, their true ‘home’ had always been there when they needed her. He reminded himself his baby was due for some TLC – oil change, brakes, wash and wax… the works… as soon as they finished saving the world.

Again.

A soft breeze wafted across the back of his neck, ruffling his short hair. He was pretty sure he heard a faint ruffling of feathers…

“You are not standing right behind me, are you, Cas?”

One side of his mouth lifted in a knowing grin. The telltale scrape of leather on grass indicating the angel had taken a few steps back. Dean turned, the grin still playing on his face. He leaned back against the warm metal, arms crossed against his chest, left ankle hooked over the right. 

“Have a nice trip?”

Castiel nodded. “Your grandfather has a very charming home.”

Dean’s brows rose at the angel’s choice of phrase and he stared at him for a moment, then shook his head, deciding it may be easier to just let this one go. He was saved from commenting as Sam bounded down the steps of the cabin, his laptop bag over one shoulder. He maneuvered the bag through the partially open window of the Impala’s front passenger door before joining his brother at the rear of the car, leaning a hip against the fender.

“Kevin’s taking a last sweep,” he explained, crooking a thumb over his shoulder toward the rustic cabin. “He’ll be out in a minute.”

At Dean’s nod, Sam turned his attention to the angel. “Is Henry okay?”

Sam had wanted to ask Henry so many questions about the Men of Letters, their mission, their history, but Henry had assured him he would find answers in the archives. He had seemed thrilled that his more ‘scholarly’ grandson had taken such a keen interest in not only the information the archives held, but the Men of Letters organization itself. 

Dean was sure Sam would dig through the piles of books and information, discovering everything there was to know about the order their grandfather gave his life to. Maybe it would give Sam a purpose, the missing something that hunting had never provided. Sam had always wanted normal, but Dean believed he had simply wanted something noble that didn’t involve the killing, the destruction, the darkness that their job required. Maybe this could be it for his brother. Sam always was the brains of the outfit – give the kid a centuries old archive and Dean suspected he could be so much more.

Dean noticed that Castiel hadn’t answered his brother’s question, instead, he stood staring, his blue eyes soft, apologetic, a sight that pinged Dean’s radar.

“Cas?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Something you want to tell us?”

Castiel shifted on his feet, dropping his gaze, unable to keep eye contact. That put Dean on high alert.

“What?” he demanded. He pushed himself off the car, taking a step closer to the angel. He felt Sam close in behind him, his brother’s hand landed lightly on his shoulder in restraint. He took a breath and leveled his gaze at the angel. “Did something happen?”

Castiel sighed, a gesture that did nothing to quell Dean’s trepidation. The angel reached into his pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper, holding it out toward the hunters. “You should read this.”

Dean turned, exchanging a wary glance with his brother, the confusion on Sam’s face mirroring his own. His brow furrowed as he snatched the paper from Castiel’s grip, opening it as his brother leaned over his shoulder.

Dean’s heart skipped a beat as he read the first words…

My Dearest Grandsons,

Please don’t be upset with Castiel, as he was only doing what I requested. As you know, Winchesters can be pretty persuasive when we put our minds to it.

I don’t know what you will find within the Men of Letters’ compound. Without the key, there would have been no way for anyone to turn off the wards, making it impossible to enter the protected space. There were only a few others in the compound with me when I was working on Abaddon, and if they left the bunker, as I’m almost positive they would have eventually, there would have been no way for them to return. 

I don’t know if any of the Men of Letters remain, but even if they are gone, I believe, with all my heart, that the two of you are our legacy. It now falls to you to protect the knowledge housed within those walls. I hope you find a way to use that knowledge to make the world a better place.

I waited to make my request to Castiel alone because I was certain you boys would have tried to talk me out of it. I realized, after my discussions with Kevin, that I had the power to aid you in your quest to rid the planet of demons. One of the last ingredients you will need is the Devotion of the Resolute. I believe my devotion to the Men of Letters qualifies. I have asked Castiel to take those memories and give them to you for use in your spell. He has assured me it is possible and I am ready, because I believe your quest is a noble one – far more important than anything my knowledge could ever produce. 

This small sacrifice is the only contribution I can make to your cause. Please accept it in the spirit it was given. I will do everything in my power to reconcile with your father and I pray his memories of me – and yours – are good ones.

You boys have been tasked with a heavy burden, one you have carried all your lives with pride and strength. I know you will succeed. I believe in you both. You are, after all, Winchesters.

Good luck, Your Grandfather, Henry

Dean stared at the letter, the penmanship reminding him of his father’s journal entries – neat and precise. He should be angry. He never wanted Henry to sacrifice anything for them. It was another layer of guilt that could finally be enough to bury him, but he was surprised to find that while he was saddened by what Henry had lost, he wasn’t angry at all. He was upset that another person’s life had been sacrificed for the damn job, he grieved for a loss he should never have even known. But mostly he was proud to carry Henry’s name. 

He looked up from the letter, letting his hand drop against his leg. His fingers held the letter tight, the paper crinkling softly from the pressure of his grip. His eyes welled as he cast them down, and a sad smile crossed his lips, grief for a grandfather he would never have. The angel produced another vial from his pocket, similar to the one that held his grace and Abaddon’s smoke. This one was filled with a fluid, golden mist, that churned beautifully within the glass. 

Huh, who would’ve thought memories were actually golden?

“How could you let him do this?” Sam shot toward the angel, his voice trembling after reading Henry’s words. Dean could feel his brother’s frustration radiating from him as Sam reached out and grabbed Castiel’s arm. “You were supposed to protect him!”

Cas didn’t react to Sam’s aggressive move, and Dean placed a hand on his brother’s sleeve, waiting until the younger man withdrew, taking a step back. He reached out and took the golden vial from Castiel, holding it reverently in both hands as he turned to his brother.

“You’re okay with this?” Sam asked, incredulous that his brother wasn’t seething with anger as he was. 

Dean shook his head. “No. I’m not,” he answered honestly. “But what are we gonna do, Sammy? It happened forty years ago. We can’t change the past. Henry did this for us. To help us the only way he knew how. We can’t just dismiss that. ”

Sam’s head moved from side to side, every instinct in him wanting to rage against what had happened, but the calm, resolute look on his brother’s face gave him pause. He swallowed, blinked against the rush of angry tears, but realized his brother was right.

“He was our grandfather, Dean.”

“I know. And he did what any Winchester would do.” Dean gave his brother a sad smile, shrugged one shoulder. “Sacrifice is kind of our family motto, right?” He waited, his eyes holding Sam’s, until the taller man’s shoulders slumped and he nodded in agreement.

“Is he okay?” Sam asked the angel, all trace of anger gone from his voice. His brow furrowed as a memory tugged at his mind. “I remember Dad saying something about Alzheimer’s?”

Castiel bowed his head. “I did not take all his memories, just those which applied to the Men of Letters. He would still have remembered who he was, who your father was.”

Dean was nodding thoughtfully, his own memories supporting the angel’s claims. “I remember Dad saying he was able to know his father after he came back. He died soon after Dad married Mom, but they were closer. So maybe Henry found a way to give everyone what they needed.”

He opened the trunk and moved a few of the bags, uncovering the box that held the other ingredients. Nestling the bottle inside between the others, Dean felt a surge of pride, knowing his grandfather’s sacrifice had gotten them that much closer to pulling this whole thing off. Securing the box once again, he leaned back and closed the trunk. Taking a deep breath, he squinted off into the setting sun, finding himself strangely at ease. Henry’s letter had instilled a confidence in him that had been waning since his return from Purgatory, settling something inside him he had thought was gone. After his time there, he wasn’t sure he could cut it anymore, he wasn’t sure he even wanted to commit to this life, this job. But their grandfather was right, this was their fight to win. And now, thanks to him, they had a real chance

“Well, thanks to Henry, we’re on the ten yard line, first down and goal to go.” He smiled, the light of the sun reflecting in his eyes. “Let’s get our offense on the field, Sammy.”

Kevin leaped down the steps and approached the older men, his backpack slung over a shoulder. He shook his head. “I should’ve said something a long time ago, dude, but if you really want to inspire me, Stop with the sports metaphors.”

Dean laughed and slapped the teenager on the back, causing him to stumble forward from the force. “We’ll work something out, kid. Get in the car.”

……………………….

As the big black car pulled away, Metatron materialized in the clearing behind Castiel.

“Why didn’t you go with them?”

Castiel turned, his head tilted, not the least bit startled by the other angel’s sudden appearance.

“I am not fond of that mode of transportation,” he answered, his eyes searching the smaller vessel before him. “I do not know you, my brother.”

The scribe smiled. “No, Castiel, but I know you. And I believe you are just the angel I need.”

 

The End…

…to be concluded next Tuesday in the Sue-Pernatural finale, ‘Worlds Collide.’ I hope you stick around!!


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